Mester

MESTER

SPECIAL ISSUE

MEMORY AND HISTORY:
REMEMBERING, FORGETTING, AND FORGIVING

XXXVI

2007

UNIVERSITY O ¥ CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES

EDITORIAL BOARD

Editors

Daniel Brown
Joanna Dávila
Leah H. Kemp
Laura Lee
Peter J. Lehman
Román Lujan
Chris Shaw
Carolina Sitnisky
Polina Vasiliev

Editor-in-Chief

Jasmina Arsova

Contributing Editors

Sarah Older Aguilar
Bethany Beyer
Catalina Forttes
Paula Thorrington
Amanda Williams

Readers

Argelia Andrade
Bryan Creen
Felicitas Ibarra
Mariam Saada

Faculty Advisors

Adriana Bergero
John Dagenais
Roberta Johnson
Anna More
Alessandra Santos

Layout

William Morosi

Mester (ISSN 0160-2764) is the gradúate student journal of the Department of Spanish and
Portuguese, University of California, Los Angeles. It is published annually with the generous
assistance of the UCLA Department of Spanish and Portuguese, the Del Amo Foundation, and
the UCLA Gradúate Students Association.

Submission Guidelines. To be considered for publication, manuscripts should follow the con-
ventions of the latest edition of the MLA Style Manual. It is presumed that all submissions are
original research, and not previously published in any other form. Submissions that are being
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Submissions of reviews for works published within the past year are accepted for the following
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Address all correspondence to: Mester, Editor-in-Chief, Department of Spanish and Portuguese,
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Copyright © 2007 by the Regents of the University of California. All rights reserved. ISSN
0160-2764.

CONTENTS

VOLUME XXXVI 2007

INTRODUCTION v

ARTICLES

Gabriel Ignacio Barreneche. Viewing History through Exile:

Music and Nostalgia in Cabrera Infante 's The Lost City 1

Eduardo Barros Grela. Idas y venidas en la España

contemporánea: los casos de Volver, de Pedro Almodóvar

y Calzados Lola de Suso de Toro 19

Andrea Colvin. Memory and Fantasy: The Imaginative

Reconstruction of a Lost Past in Las cartas que no llegaron 38

Elena Deanda Camacho. "El chuchumbé te he de soplar:"
sobre obscenidad, censura y memoria oral en el primer
"son de la tierra" novohispano 53

JosHUA Alma Enslen. The Hour and Turn of João Guimarães
Rosa: Symbolic Discourse and Death in the Academia
Brasileira de Letras 72

Alexandra Falek. Forms of Memory in Recent Fictional

Narratives from Uruguay: Summoning the Dictatorship in
"Mnemonic Interventions" 86

Nicola Gavioli. Sebald's Still Life Devices against

Interpretations: An Explanation of Austerlitz through
Cortázar's and Antonioni's Cameras 109

DiLTON Cândido Santos Maynard. O "modernizador dos sertões:"
intelectuais brasileiros e as memorias de Delmiro Gouveia 123

C. Brian Morris. Rafael Alberti y el peso del ayer 146

Andrés Pérez Simón. El recuerdo fracturado de la Guerra
Civil española: trauma individual y colectivo en
La prima Angélica 160

Piona Schouten. Labyrinth without Walls: The Uncanny
and the Gothic Modes as Forms of Haunting in
La casa del padre by Justo Navarro 179

Juan Velasco. Santitos: Loss, the Catholic Sleuth, and the

Transnational Mestiza Consciousness 198

REVIEWS

Benítez, Rubén. Bécquer y la tradición de la lírica popular.

(Sylvia Sherno) 215

Jiménez Polanco, Jacqueline. Ed. Divagaciones bajo la luna/

Musing under the Moon. Voces e imágenes de lesbianas

dominicanas/Voices and Images of Dominican Lesbians.

(Joanna Dávila) 220

Klein, Naomi. The Shock Doctrine. The Rise of Disaster

Capitalism. (Alessandra Santos) 223

López Morín, José R. The Legacy of Américo Paredes.

(Damián Bacich) 227

IN MEMORIAM 233

CONTRIBUTORS 235

Introduction

The key question posed by this Special Issue in Mester's thirty-sixth year
is what role do memory and history play in the criticai study of iiterary,
linguistic, and visual cultures across the Luso-Hispanic worlds. What
especially interested us was to explore that which has been ignored,
buried, stripped of its own identity, yet strives to remain alive despite
the effects of politicai and physical time. We invited submissions that
analyse the ways in which the various forms of memory, such as remem-
bering, forgetting, and forgiving, shape the anatomy of the personal
and the politicai. We were curious to examine the effects of amnesia,
melancholia, and nostalgia as ethics of survival and/or repression on
cultural production and individual memory. We asked who and w^hat
inform the different narratives of cultural commemoration? How do
authorities construct and re-construct history? Is memory a human
right? Who is allowed to remember? While thinking through these and
other similar questions, we wanted to investígate the role played by
Iiterary and artistic contributions in such rich processes. The following
twelve articles you are about to read contémplate these issues from a
variety of perspectives. After reading them, we hope that you will feel
compelled to continue discussing the multipHcity of answers given by
our astute contributors and raise some of your own questions. In this
way our Special Issue will have fulfilled its main purpose of creating
new openings for further intellectual expatiation.

I am particularly pleased to present a broad representation of
different genres and áreas of focus, which include studies about works
from the Southern Cone, the Carribean, Brasil, México, and Spain.
Missing are submissions researching Central American and Portuguese
themes, which we hope to see in the future. The essays also vary in
the expressive media they analyse and there should be something for
those interested not only in Iiterary but also in criticai theory, cultural,
gender, and visual studies. Choosing these particular twelve among the
nearly seventy submitted articles was not an easy task and we would
like to acknowledge the contributions by those who did not enter this
coUection and whose articles you might read in another journal instead.
The members of the Editorial Board did an excellent job of carefully
reading through ali of the numerous essays and then overseeing various
revisions of those that were recommended for publication. It was a

MESTER, VOL. XXXVI (2007) v

INTRODUCTION

privilege to work with and learn from the dedicated colleagues who
joined me this year. I am thankful for their assistance and respect for
my efforts to keep everything moving forward and put it ali together
despite the usual challenges.

Needless to say, very special gratitude goes to our wonderful
Faculty Advisors: Adriana Bergero, John Dagenais, Roberta Johnson,
Anna More, and Alessandra Santos. Among them, Professor Roberta
Johnson went far and beyond her responsibility to generously offer
her expertise and time with consistent encouragement and invaluable
input. Our deepest thanks also go to the UCLA Department of Spanish
and Portuguese, the Del Amo Foundation, and the UCLA Gradúate
Students Association for their continuous and much needed financial
sponsorship. Last but not least, without the skill of our loyal friend and
layout person, William Morosi, who has witnessed Mester go through
several transformations, you would not be enjoying the professional
appearance of our journal.

From generation to generation of different Editors-in-Chief and
their visions, what remains is the desire to survive and to be remembe-
red as an inspiration by other gradúate students elsewhere embarking
on a similar journey. Though the academic road is often uncertain and
discouraging at times, to see the fruits of your labor materialize into
something creative and meaningful, makes it worthwhile at the end.

On that note, with profound reverence we dedicare Mester XXXVI
to two of our dear Professors Guillermo E. Flernández and Carroll B.
Johnson, who have unexpectedly passed away during the course of
crafting this issue. We thank very much Professor C. Brian Morris for
kindly offering his translations of two sonnets by Francisco de Quevedo
in memory of his colleagues. Professor G. E. Hernández and Professor
C. B. Johnson will never cease to live through the rich legacy they leave
behind — ali of their students, colleagues, family, and friends, as well as
their exceptional research and writing, which many of us will continue
to treasure in the years to come.

Jasmina Arsova

Editor-in-Chief 2006-2007

Mester Literary Journal

Articles

Viewing History through Exile: Music
and Nostalgia in Cabrera Infante's
The Lost City

Gabriel Ignacio Barreneche
Rollins College

In 2006, exiled Cuban novelist Guillermo Cabrera Infante's lifelong
dream of bringing the world of pre-Revolutionary Havana nighdife to
the silver screen was finally realized in the Andy García film The Lost
City. The last work before his death in 2005, The Lost City represents
a filmic versión of a world about to end: the culture and music of
Cuba before the triumph of the Revolution and the subsequent exile
of hundreds of thousands of Cubans. There are striking points of con-
tact between one of Cabrera Infante's first works, the acclaimed 1967
experimental novel Tres tristes tigres, and The Lost City, his swan
song screenplay 16 years in the making, as well as significant points of
divergence between the film and his 1974 work Vista del amanecer en
el trópico. Through an analysis of the use and function of music and
nostalgia in these three works, this paper will consider how Cabrera
Infante's re-creation of revolutionary Cuba in The Lost City reflects,
on the one hand, a stylized and musical world in the spirit of Tres
tristes tigres, but on the other hand, a narrow, Manichean visión of the
historical events of the time that is not evident in his previous works.
Through this analysis, one can conclude that screenwriter's nostalgic
portrayal of Havana in The Lost City reveáis a marked shift in his
perspective on exile and the events of the Cuban Revolution almost
40 years after leaving Cuba.

In 1983, Cuban-born actor Andy García began working on a
project that he hoped would be a Cuban versión of the classic film
Casablanca. A friend recommended that he read Cabrera Infante's
novel Tres tristes tigres for its rich descriptions of Havana nightiife
before 1959. After meeting the author in person in London to discuss
his project. García decided that he had found his scriptwriter. For
his part. Cabrera Infante was no stranger to the film industry. His

MESTER, VOL. XXXVl (2007) 1

Gabriel Ignacio Barreneche

writing credits include numerous film reviews for the literary magazine
Carteles, the films Vanishing Point (1971) and Wonderwall (1968),
as well as having founded the Cinemateca Cubana. Cabrera Infante's
first draft of what was to become the script for The Lost City came in
at a hefty 351 pages in length, roughly three pounds in weight, and as
such, it required significant revisión and editing to reduce its massive
scope. In spite of having a working script and a visión of the film laid
out, García encountered numerous obstacles in procuring financing
for the film within the traditional Hollywood circles. Finally, in 2004,
the producer Frank Mancuso, Jr. secured financing for the film and
gave García permission to begin production. With only 35 days to film
and a modest budget of less than $10 million. García began the task
of bringing Cabrera Infante's script to life.

The script for The Lost City traces the experience of the Fellove
family from the final days of the Batista regime through the initial
moments of the triumph of the Cuban Revolution. The protagonist is
Pico Fellove, the eldest son of the family and owner of a Tropicana-
esque nightclub called El Trópico.^ The seemingly apolitical Fico is
pulled into the conflict caused by the Revolution through the actions
of his brothers. Youngest brother Ricardo joins Fidel's forces in the
Sierra Maestra, and Luis, one of the leaders of the rebellious student
group El Directorio Revolucionario, is killed following a failed attack
on Batista and the Presidential Palace. The ideological tensions in the
film rise when Fico falis in love with Aurora, Luis' widow. Whereas
Fico and his university professor father distrust Fidel's intentions,
Aurora, the proclaimed "Widow of the Revolution," allies herself with
the Fidelistas.- As the politicai situation becomes more unbearable for
Fico as a result of the state's seizure of his nightclub, he decides to
leave his beloved Havana and seek exile in New York City.

In addition to the politicai and personal drama of the Fellove
family, one of the unifying themes of The Lost City is the music and
culture of Cuba. For García, the film's génesis stems from his interest
in and passion for the music of this island. He explains that, "For me
the entire project started with the music of Cuba, and that's where it all
began. "^ Throughout the film, music not only re-creates the ambiance
of the time period, but it also functions as one of the main characters
in its ability to communicate directly with the viewer. García, who
has been involved in numerous musical projects over the past decade,"*
explains that, "The lyrics of the music of these songs are always

Viewing History through Exile

commenting [. . .] they're really the protagonists of the film [. . .]
they're constantly commenting on the situations." For example, in the
scene where Fico's Fidelista brother Ricardo visits his uncle's tobáceo
plantation to confíscate it for the state, an oíd vitrola plays the Miguel
Matamoros song Te picó la abeja as he approaches his uncle's bohío.
According to García, in this scene, the abeja represents Ricardo, and
his únele Donoso is the unfortunate soul who is about to be "stung"
by the Revolution. If the viewer were to recognize and understand the
lyrics of this song, he/she would be able to anticípate Ricardo's impend-
ing betrayal/ In other words, the music in the background effectively
foreshadows the action about to take place on screen.

Different genres of Cuban music present in the film enhance par-
ticular moments on the screen. First of all, the Afro-Cuban musical
pieces, a number of which were arranged by García himself, heighten
the dramatic tensión during criticai points in the film. For example,
a musical piece with the Afro-Cuban Abakuá rhythm plays while
Leonela, El Trópico's prima ballerina, interprets the piece through
dance.'' At the highest point of rhythmic tensión, a bomb explodes,
tragically killing Leonela. Another major turning point brought to
the fore through the film's Afro-Cuban music takes place at an Afro-
Cuban social club dance being filmed by Fico. During the dance, one
of the santeras approaches Aurora, Fico's widowed sister-in-law and
love interest, and announces to her that "El tiempo no está con ust-
edes," forecasting the end of Aurora and Fico's relationship, as well
as the end of their way of life in Cuba. Finally, another Afro-Cuban
musical number brings the dramatic scene of the attack on the presi-
dential palace to a fever pitch. On the other hand, bolero inspired
musical pieces move the nostalgic and romantic scenes. For example,
the love theme Si me pudieras querer by famed Cuban crooner Bola
de Nieve echoes the conflicted and melancholic emotions that Fico
feels towards Aurora, the unattainable love of his life. Whereas
García 's use of distinctive Afro-Cuban rhythms enhances the scenes
of significant dramatic tensión in the film, the romantic boleros that
play during the scenes w^ith Fico and Aurora reflect a less conflicted
and more nostalgic view of Fiavana. In other words, the Afro-Cuban
music, representative of the social and ethnic tensions that underlay
the Cuban Revolution, contrasts with the melodic and sentimental
boleros that are predominant in the soundtrack of the film, suggesting
a preference for this idealized visión of Havana.

Gabriel Igfiacio Barreneche

The music of The Lost City also functions on a symbolic level as
the focal point of Fico's life. He is the proud owner of the El Trópico
nightclub and is committed to preserving music as the center of his
estabhshment, rejecting American mobster Meyer Lansky's proposal
to set up gambhng operations at the club. The shows at El Trópico
remind the viewer of an idyllic visión of Cuba free from politicai
and social conflict. As such, unlike his brothers, Fico does not take
any sides until the Revolution literally comes to his club in the form
of Party officials censoring the content of his shows at El Trópico
and outlawing the use of the saxophone because of its "imperialist"
roots. This artistic censorship precipitates Fico's complete disenchant-
ment with the Revolution and eventual decisión to exile himself.
Finally, having chosen to leave Cuba, one of the few personal items
that Fico tries to take with him as an exile is a collection of Cuban
records, an attempt to physically bring the musical legacy of his
homeland with him.

For Fico, the desire to take Cuba's music with him to New York
City represents the challenge of preserving the last piece of his life
that the Revolution has not taken from him. Because of this divisive
politicai conflict. Fico loses both of his brothers, his nightclub, as well
as Aurora, the love of his life. García explains, "1. . .] ultimately the
main metaphor of The Lost City, is about finding solace in the one
thing that's never betrayed you, which is your culture, or in Fico's
case, his music." In the emotional scene where Fico is interrogated at
the security checkpoint before boarding his flight into exile, the sol-
dier asks Fico what he is carrying in his bags, to which Fico responds,
"Only what I need." The only items the viewer sees in Fico's suitcase
are his LPs and a movie camera, concrete symbols of his "need" to
bring Cuba's music with him into exile. Similarly, by reopening El
Trópico in New York City at the end of the film. Fico creares a space
that is free from the divisiveness of politics and the Revolution and
tries to find solace in music, as García describes. In contrast to the
socially conscious música de protesta of the post-Revolution period
that aimed to give voice to the marginalized and oppressed, the lyrical
boleros and energetic cha-cha-chas played throughout the film wax
nostalgic about lost love, and celébrate dance, fun and good times.
For Fico as well as for Cabrera Infante and García, the music of The
Lost City transcends the conflicts of the time and offers a space of
comfort and reassurance. Regardless of politicai affiliations or points

Vieiving History through Exile

of view on the merits of the Revolution, aside from the scenes with
Afro-Cuban music discussed earlier, the film's music opens a door to
a non-conflictive, nostalgic world in which the exile can re-create his
or her idealized memory of la patria.

Similarly, Cabrera Infante 's 1967 novel Tres tristes tigres has at
its core the music and rhythms of Cuba. While on a theoretical levei,
TTT is a text about the shortcomings of the written word, much of its
plotline centers on the world of music and nightlife in Havana shortly
before the triumph of the Revolution/ Throughout the text, there
are numerous characters who are themselves musicians and singers,
such as La Estrella, Cuba Venegas, Freddy, and Eribó, and much of
the word play and word usage in the text is musical in nature, One of
the major narrative lines of TTT, the interpolated story "Ella cantaba
boleros," describes the encounters of the bolero singer La Estrella with
the tigres. So significant was this portion of TTT that in 1996 these
interpolated vignettes were published as the sepárate, cohesive work.
Ella cantaba boleros. Furthermore, throughout the entirety of the text,
the characters regularly describe their experiences and their reality with
numerous references to pop culture, film, and, music (Souza 87-88). For
example, during their nocturnal drive around Havana in the "Bachata"
section. Silvestre and Cué discuss the philosophical implications of
playing Bach's music at 65 kilometers per hour while cruising along the
Malecón hundreds of years after his death. Cué comments:

Bach, Juan Sebastián, el barroco marido fornicante de
la reveladora Ana Magdalena, el padre contrapuntístico
de su armonioso hijo Cari Friedrich Emmanuel, el ciego
de Bonn, el sordo de Lepanto, el manco maravilloso, el
autor de ese manual de todo preso espiritual, El Arte de
la fuga. [. . .] ¿Qué diría el viejo Bacho si supiera que su
música viaja por el Malecón de La Habana, en el trópico,
a sesenta y cinco kilómetros por hora? ¿Qué le daría más
miedo? ¿Qué sería pavoroso para él? ¿El tempo a que viaja
sonando el bajo continuo? ¿O el espacio, la distancia hasta
donde llegaron sus ondas sonoras organizadas? (Cabrera
Infante, TTT 194)

TTVs relationship with music is also evidenced in its structure.
In a personal letter from Cabrera Infante to the critic Ardis Nelson,

Gabriel Ignacio Barreneche

our author comments that TTT resembles a rhapsody in its form
(54). In a rhapsody, the music for instruments is irregular in its form
and allows for a great deal of improvisation. Much like a rhapsody,
TTT is a text fuli of these improvisations and irregularities. Nelson
furthers the connection between TTT and music by dividing the text
into the components of a concert. For example, the section called
"Los debutantes" can be considered an overture with its varied motifs
reoccurring throughout the work, and the "Bachata" section a fugue
and counterpoint (57).

The function of music in TTT goes beyond merely an attempt
to authentically reproduce the context of Cabrera Infante's Havana.
Throughout TTT, Cabrera Infante questions the authority of the written
word through the text's emphasis on orality and the spoken word, its
unceasing use of word play and puns, and through the deconstruction
of language itself. For example, as seen in Cabrera Infante's Advertencia
to his reader, "algunas páginas se deben oír mejor que se leen, y no
sería mala idea leerlas en voz alta" (9). In other words, through this
warning to the reader. Cabrera Infante casts a shadow of doubt on the
primacy of reading and writing as opposed to oral communication,
and questions whether the spoken word can be accurately transcribed
to the written form. There are numerous examples of the use of orality
throughout TTT, including the prolific oral wordplay of the character of
Bustrófedon as well as the transcription of the Cuban accent and speech
patterns into the written word of the text. Bustrófedon not only argües
that literature should be written in non-traditional places, such as on
bathroom walls, but also written in the air, that is, in the manner of a
literature of the spoken word. He explains to his friend Códac, "[. . .]
la otra literatura hay que escribirla en el aire, queriendo decir que había
que hacerla hablando, digo yo, o si quieres alguna clase de posteridad,
la grabas, así, y luego la borras así (haciendo las dos cosas ese día,
menos con las muestras pasadas) y todos contentos" (257-58). Critic
Alfred MacAdam argües that TTT demonstrates that the written sign/
written word cannot fully capture or retain the meaning of the spoken
word, ''Tres tristes tigres es una pirámide verbal, la representación
sistemática de la incapacidad del signo escrito de retener la palabra
hablada" (206). By emphasizing alternative modes of communication,
in this case orality and music. Cabrera Infante further undermines the
authority of the written word as the principal means of communication
and literature as the primary method of artistic expression.^

Viewing History through Exile

Similarly, through music's function as a character and as an aher-
native method of expression, The Lost City questions the primacy of
the visual médium, the image, as well as the spoken word, namely
dialogue, as the most important vehicles for communication within a
film. For example, The Lost City's music makes a direct emotive con-
nection with the audience of the film. Cabrera Infante and García were
keenly aware of one of the significam segments of the audience for this
film: the Cuban exile community. The music of The Lost City taps into
the memory banks of this specific group of viewers in order to enhance
the action on screen. The film's authentic music also awakens a sense
of nostalgia that fictitious dialogues between characters could never
summon. Cultural studies critic David Shumway explains that film
soundtracks using previously recorded music rely on the audience's
familiarity with the music in order to produce an emotive response
(36-37).'' Upon hearing popular music of the times, a direct link is
made between the exiled viewer and the actions on screen because it
is the same music to which he or she would listen at that historical
moment in that specific space.

Whereas the use of music as an alternative means of communi-
cation in The Lost City is consistent with Cabrera Infante's earlier
works, the function of nostalgia in the film demonstrates a significant
evolution in his visión of the recounting of historical events, including
the Revolution. On the one hand, with its lively and optimistic visión
of Havana just before the Revolution, TTT nostalgically captures
the final days of a world that was about to change forever. Cabrera
Infante's 1974 work Vista del amanecer en el trópico, a collection of
vignettes tracing Cuba's troubled history, problematizes the process of
historical recoUection through its multifaceted presentation of similar
historical events and questionable sources. While the nostalgic, ideal-
ized visión of Havana nightlife is present in both TTT and The Lost
City, Cabrera Infante's film presents an absolutist, moralistic visión of
history with none of the ambiguity of Vista del amanecer en el trópico
or the light-heartedness of TTT.

Completed over 40 years after Cabrera Infante's exile from Cuba,
The Lost City sets a nostalgic tone and mood through the music of
the initial frames of the film. The first scene opens with the image of
famed trumpeter Chocolate Armenteros sounding out the Virgilio
Martí tune Cuba Linda. Those familiar with the song will immedi-
ately recall its lyrics: "Cuba linda de mi vida / Cuba linda siempre te

Gabriel Ignacio Barreneche

recordaré / Yo quisiera verte ahora / Como la primera vez [. . .]" The
stage is set for an experience of memory, remembrance, and nostalgia,
a yearning for a place that no longer exists. Projected through the
lens of nostalgia, the world of late 1950s Havana becomes distorted
by the exile's need to re-create it in an idealized way. This idealized
visión is like seeing Havana "por primera vez."'" Throughout the film,
the character of Fico seems to sense that the world of Havana as he
knows it is about to change forever. For example, on numerous occa-
sions he takes out his home movie camera in order to film music and
dance numbers as well as romantic moments he shares with Aurora
at the beach. Whereas the scenes relating to the brothers Ricardo and
Luis illustrate the politicai upheaval happening in Havana in the final
days of the Revolution, Fico's plot line and his love interest in Aurora
allow Cabrera Infante to wax nostalgic about Havana's nightlife and
social scene. One such occasion is when Fico's mother asks him to
take Aurora out so that she can distract herself from mourning the
death of Luis. In a sporty red convertible. Fico and Aurora cruise the
streets of Havana and partake of the rhythms and music of the city.
One of the crucial stops during their foray is a chance to watch the
legendary Benny Moré perform live. These scenes function not only
to move the love story plotline along, but they also heighten the sense
of foreboding and melancholy of a world that is about to disappear.
Jameson argües that these idealized scenes are characteristic of the
"nostalgia film:"

Nostalgia film [. . .] seeks to genérate images and simulacra
of the past, thereby — in a social situation in which genuine
historicity or class traditions have become enfeebled —
producing something like a pseudopast for consumption
as a compensation and a substitute for, but also a displace-
ment of, that different kind of past which has (along with
active visions of the future) been a necessary component
for groups of people in other situations in the projection
of their praxis and the energizing of their coUective project
("On Magic Realism in Film" 310)."

As with the use of music in the film, the "pseudopast" portrayal of
Havana through Fico's life in The Lost City reflects a nostalgia for a
simpler time free from the politicai and social conflicts of the day.

Viewing History through Exile

This same nostalgic presentation of the final moments of pre-
Revolutionary Havana can be seen throughout TTT. Cabrera Infante
began writing the text while he was already outside of Cuba in 1961.
During this time as a cuhural attaché in Brussels, as he was writing
T7T Cabrera Infante found himself homesick and nostalgic for the
Cuba he left behind (Souza 77). Cabrera Infante explains how being
in Brussels inspired his writing: "Fue allí donde de veras se gestó Tres
tristes tigres. No podía atajar el alud de memorias que me venían cada
noche impidiéndome dormir y para exorcizarlas comencé a escribir
toda esa primera parte del libro que se llama 'Los debutantes'. [. . .]"
("Memoria Plural" 1087). Critic Raymond Souza notes that the
"Bachata" section was in fact written during Cabrera Infante 's final
trip to Havana in 1965 due to the death of his mother, thus explaining
the sense of nostalgia and loss that permeares that particular section
(84). Ardis Nelson argües that TTT represents a snapshot of Havana
in the 1950s and that Cabrera Infante is trying to preserve, through
his writing, a world that is about to disappear because of the historical
forces at work in Cuba. As a result of this realization, Cabrera Infante
tries to immortalize this world's language, characters, problems and
dreams through his fiction (39). In a 1977 interview with Danubio
Torres Fierro, Cabrera Infante explains how one of his motivations
for writing TTT was to continue the preservation of Havana nightlife
that his brother's controversial film "P.M." had begun before it was
censored by the Castro regime:

La literatura está hecha de nostalgia, lo sabemos, pero si
al principio me atacó una suerte de manía ecológica, de
preservar la fauna nocturna que tan bien había retratado
P.M. y que el juicio de la Biblioteca Nacional demostró
que estaba condenada a desaparecer, en Bruselas hubo un
ataque nostálgico por el habitat de esa fauna, que es el
genius loci del libro — es decir. La Habana y concretamente
La Habana de noche, porque en el libro se recogen muchas
noches que se quieren fundir en una sola, larga noche —
("Memoria Plural" 1087-88).

Much like a naturalist trying to preserve an endangered species and
its habitat, Cabrera Infante attempts to rescue the Havana of his
imagination and memory through the literary and filmic media. With

1 o Gabriel Ignacio Barreneche

the passage of time, the sense of urgency for the exile to immortal-
ize his or her lost world (or lost city) becomes more pronounced.
Cabrera Infante comments that the inspiration for TTT resulted from
each passing year away from Cuba, "No me perjudica la lejanía de
Cuba sino que me beneficia: allí nunca hubiera podido escribir TTT,
ni siquiera en La Habana relativamente libre de 1959. Me hacía falta
no sólo la lejanía, sino la convicción de que esa luz de la vela estaba
apagada, que solamente por la literatura podría recobrar ese pasado"
("Memoria Plural" 1095).

Similarly, in The Lost City, this nostalgia for Havana grows stron-
ger through Fico's experiences. Even before leaving Cuba, Fico lives
in the memories of his past life through the items he carries with him.
During the same scene where the soldier who inspects Fico's belong-
ings finds his coUection of records, he also notices a swizzle stick from
El Trópico in Fico's pocket and comments: "You worms are strange.
Not yet gone, and you are already carrying souvenirs. You can't take
Cuba with you, you know?" This is exactly what Fico attempts to do,
take Cuba with him and transplant it to New York City. As soon as he
arrives in New York, Fico sets up his projector in his cramped hotel
room and watches his home movies with sadness and longing. What
is questionable about this scene is that like most exiles who left Cuba
soon after the triumph of the Revolution, Fico would probably have
imagined Fidel's rule to be temporary and that he would soon return
home to Cuba. In other words, at the moment of his departure, Fico
does not really know that he is leaving Cuba forever. Furthermore,
his New York experience consists of staying in his hotel room watch-
ing home movies of Cuba, listening to records, and later going to
work washing dishes at Victor's Café, an elegant Cuban restaurant.
The only occasions when the viewer sees Fico outside in New York is
when he visits the statue of José Martí in Central Park and when he
dines with the character of The Writer at El Dragón Rojo, a Cuban-
Chinese restaurant. In other words, while in exile Fico tries to find
solace in the Cuban elements already in New York. It would seem that
by immediately making Fico a prisoner of nostalgia. Cabrera Infante
imparts his own visión of exile, that of the need to re-create the lost
city of Havana, almost 40 years after leaving Cuba in 1965.

Fico's final sublimation into the world of nostalgia takes form at
the end of the film. As the tune "Cuba Linda" plays for a final time and
García 's voiceover reads from Martí's Versos sencillos. Fico literally

Viewing History through Exile 1 1

steps into the frame of his home movies, clambers up the staircase of
what appears to be a nightclub, and joins the comparsa of musicians
and dancers at the top of the staircase. Then screen titles reveal that
Fico soon opened a New York versión of his nightclub El Trópico,
thus completing the return to his previous Ufe, distant from Cuba only
in geographic distance. In other words, the experience of exile leads
Fico to duplícate his Cuban life in New York exactly as it was before
he left Havana, save for the love of Aurora, who had allied herself
with the Revolution. Fico's longing to re-create Havana through his
new cabaret can be seen in a conversation with The Writer at Victor's
Café. The Writer presents Fico with a miniature Statue of Liberty and
explains to him, "This pretty lady's torch is Aladdin's lamp, a Latin's
lamp. And it will grant any wish in your life," to which Fico responds,
"I wish I could relive it." The Writer declares, "You can by rebuilding
it." There are two interesting dynamics at work in this exchange. First
of all. Fico does not wish to go back to Cuba and continue on with
his life there, but rather he desires to relive that previous life. In other
words, the experience of exile instills in him a desire to Uve in the past
and not consider any future possibilities. Secondly, The Writer, who
is the on-screen embodiment of Cabrera Infante himself, declares that
Fico can indeed fulfill his wishes and relive the past by building a New
York versión of El Trópico. This desire to re-create the lost world of
Cuba is most prevalent in the exile enclave of Miami. Cuban writer
and literary critic Gustavo Pérez Firmat's nostalgic memoir of growing
up in Miami explains:

El exiliado vive de la sustitución, se nutre de lo que le falta.
Obligados a abandonar La Habana, nos construimos una
copia en Miami. Ante las catástrofes de la historia, el reme-
dio es el remedio. [. . .] Como Don Quijote, todo exiliado
es un apóstol de la imaginación, alguien que le da la espalda
a la realidad para crearse un mundo nuevo. No en balde
el restaurante más popular de La Pequeña Habana es el
Versailles, una casa de espejos y espíritus. Cercado de imá-
genes, rodeado de reflejos, el exiliado no distingue entre el
original y el simulacro, entre el oasis y el espejismo.'- (58)

Through his quixotic imagination, Fico's re-creation of El Trópico
functions as a copy of his former life in Havana that he cannot

J 2 Gabriel Ignacio Barreneche

distinguish from the New York versión. At the end of the film, the
viewer of The Lost City does not know if Fico ever realizes that
the simulacrum can never truly duplicare the world he left behind,
or if he so fully believes the simulacrum that it becomes, in effect,
real for him.

The nostalgic visión of Havana presented by Cabrera Infante in
The Lost City is problematic when one examines with greater atten-
tion how time, distance and nostalgia have shifted Cabrera Infante's
view of the movement of history. Whereas he once viewed the process
of preserving history as multidimensional and complex, as seen in
Vista dei amanecer en el trópico, The Lost City offers the viewer a
moralistic and unilateral view of these historical events. For example,
the presentation of the complexities of the Revolution in the film
does well in depicting the excesses of the Batista regime as well as
the revolutionary struggles beyond Fidel's Movimiento 26 de Julio.
However, throughout the film Cabrera Infante's script allows for very
little engagement or dialogue with the valúes and objectives of Fidel's
movement. For example, when Ricardo Fellove, the estranged guer-
rillero, arrives at his uncle's funeral, there is no discussion or dialogue
with the family, but rather a unidirectional sermón delivered by his
father, and a slap in the face from his brother Fico. Ricardo's response
is not to try to reconcile these conflicting belief systems, but rather
in the Manichean structure presented by Cabrera Infante, the only
recourse for this wayward Fidelista is suicide.

The other Fellove family member who comes under the spell of
Fidel's revolution, and Cabrera Infante's scorn, is Aurora. Although
she does not kill herself for realizing the errors of her ways, she is
flatly rejected by Fico, who consciously chooses the cruel loneliness
of exile over compromising his politicai ideais in order to continue
his relationship with Aurora. In other words, our hero Fico would
rather be justified but heartbroken than look for a middle ground
and a life of happiness with Aurora. During their meeting in New
York City, Fico tells Aurora that returning from exile in order to be
able to iove her in Cuba would be, "Too big of a price to pay." Fico's
exile experience has transformed into a personal crusade to preserve
the memory and culture of Havana. He explains to Aurora, "I don't
have a loyalty to a lost cause. But I do have a loyalty to a lost city, and
that's my cause and my curse." Fico's new cause and curse cannot be
compromised by continuing his relationship with a Fidelista. Although

Viewing History through Exile 1 3

he proclaims his eternal love for Aurora, Fico's unilateral solution is
for Aurora to join him in exile.

On the other hand, TTT, written only a few years after Cabrera
Infante's exile, is notably less moralistic with regards to its view of
the Revolution. When Arsénio Cué, one of the tigres, decides to join
Fidel's rebels in the Sierra Maestra, rather than being ostracized
from his family, he is merely mocked by his friends for this decisión
(Swanson 44):

— Me voy al Sierra.

— Es muy temprano para la noche y muy tarde para la
madrugada. No va a estar abierto.

— A la Sierra, no al Sierra.

— ¿A Nicanor del Campo ahora?

— No, cono, me voy al monte. Me alzo. Me hago guerrillero.

— ¡Qué!

— Que me uno a Fiel, a Fidel.

— Estás borracho hermano. (Cabrera Infante TTT 347)

Whereas in TTT a decisión to join the rebels is rejected by means
of humor and choteo, in The Lost City there is little humor in the
Fellove family's reaction to Ricardo and Aurora 's allegiance to Fidel.
While in TTT Cabrera Infante leaves it up to the reader as to how to
interpret Cué's decisión, in The Lost City there is not any room for
interpretation: the actions of Ricardo and Aurora are acts of betrayal
that cannot be forgiven. These differing views on the Revolution can
be explained by Cabrera Infante's extensive time in exile as well as
by the overall serious tone of The Lost City in comparison to the
light-hearted and humorous TTT. Also, unlike Fico's exile experi-
ence of wanting to take pieces of Havana v^ith him and to re-create
Cuban cabarets on foreign soil, the characters in TTT are not facing
the imminent threat of exile, even though the reader is aware that
the tigres' world of late 1950s Havana nightlife is about to end.
Furthermore, there is no desire to relive the past or to try to stop the
forward progress of history, but rather only a desire to preserve the
nocturnal fauna through the written text.

In contrast to the Manichean view of the events of the Cuban
Revolution seen in The Lost City, Cabrera Infante's 1974 work Vista
del amanecer en el trópico offers a more problematized and complex

1 4 Gabriel Ignacio Barreneche

visión of history as well as the role of the reader/viewer in interpret-
ing historical events. The text itself, a series of vignettes describing
the sweeping history of Cuba, forces the reader to consider a number
of ahernative perspectives on the history of the island. As such, the
role of the writer/narrator/historian as omniscient, infallible purveyor
of truth and information is cast into doubt. Souza explains that the
structure of Vista del amanecer en el trópico resembles that of a comic
strip, and as a result, the reader must play an active role in the con-
struction of meaning, "Individual frames exist as singular entities, but
each has more meaning when associated with others — this segmenta-
tion is essential to the organization of a comic strip and to Cabrera
Infante's text. In both cases, it is left to the reader to establish connec-
tions between the sepárate units and to form a story, to transform the
segments into a cohesive whole" (124). In other words, the creation
of historical meaning does not lie solely with the narrator, but rather
the reader must also participate in this process.

In addition to having a structure that puts the onus of interpreta-
tion on the reader, the role of the narrator in Vista del amanecer en el
trópico also casts doubt on the text's ability to accurately represent the
events of history. Alvarez Borland's study of Cabrera Infante and the
Cuban literature of exile examines this issue of the problematic narra-
tor in Vista del amanecer en el trópico^ "[. . .] the voice of the fictional
historian in this text embodies a paradoxical stance that challenges the
veracity of historical language because it offers no assurance of truth
while at the same time it explores aesthetic and philosophical issues
of perception and meaning" (30). Whereas the view of the historical
events surrounding The Lost City presented through the lens of the
filmic narrative may consider itself to be an alternative visión to the
official discourse of the revolutionary government, in effect it presents
itself as reliable and objective. However, years before the creation of
The Lost City, Cabrera Infante himself questioned if any historical
account could be truly objective. Alvarez Borland explains,

While fiction (in this text represented by either "legend" or
"in reality") is not always reliable, history is not entirely
objective, because it is a story told from only one of many
possible perspectives. History, for Cabrera Infante, is sub-
jective and moldable, and can be used to serve one's own
purposes. [. . .] The voice of the anonymous historian,

Viewing History through Exile 1 5

however, has no more authority over the facts than other
versions and becomes instead a critique of the historical
process by telHng the perceptive reader that this versión,
like the others, is only one of the many possible ones that
can be offered as true to the reader. (34)

The Lost City's treatment of the events of the Revolution and the
ostracism of the two Fidelista characters, Ricardo through his sui-
cide and Aurora through Fico's rejection of her love, demónstrate
that history for Cabrera Infante is no longer quite so "subjective and
moldable" and that, as a result, he no longer offers numerous pos-
sible versions of history for the reader and/or viewer to consider. This
shift in perspective from history as questionable and multifaceted to
uniform and absolute results from the passing of years in exile for
Cabrera Infante. Whereas TTT and Vista del amanecer en el trópico
were written in the years immediately following the Revolution, The
Lost City did not begin to take shape until over 30 years after the
triumph of Fidel. '^ Having spent decades in exile in London, Cabrera
Infante's view of exile and of the historical events surrounding his
exile would naturally change. As with most Cuban exiles, his initial
reaction would have been to consider exile a temporary situation with
the hope of soon returning to a democratic Cuba. However, as the
Castro regime Consolidated its position and survived the numerous
attempts against it, Cabrera Infante and the Cuban exile came to view
exile as a more permanent condition and its retrospective view of the
events of the Revolution became more entrenched and absolutist.

In conclusión, as we have seen, music and nostalgia play a criti-
cai role in the construction of Cabrera Infante's last work, The Lost
City. Completed nearly forty years after his exile from Cuba and
the creation of TTT and Vista del amenecer en el trópico., Cabrera
Infante's film versión of the last days of Havana before the dawn of
the Revolution becomes mired in idyllic, nostalgic visions of music
and nightlife, a place that can only continue to exist in the collective
memory of the exile community. The music of the era functions as
both an alternative narrative voice in the film, and as a safe haven for
the creation of an idealized patria free from the politicai discussions,
family betrayal, or social conflict of the times. Secondly, through
his Manichean presentation of the events of the Revolution and
its aftermath for the Fellove family, Cabrera Infante demonstrares

1 6 Gabriel Ignacio Barreneche

his evolution from preservationist of the world of Havana nightlife
(TTT) and questioner of the absoluta truth and veracity of historical
accounts {Vista del amanecer en el trópico), to a more sharply defined
view of history and exile. Having spent more years in exile than in
Cuba itself, Cabrera Infante's work reflects the permanence of the
exile experience as well as the specific consequences of the Revolution.
Nonetheless, this last work in exile clearly demonstrates his dedication
to the preservation of a lost time and place, just as Fico does through
his declaration, "But I do have a loyalty to a lost city, and that's my
cause and my curse."

Notes

1. García stares that he originally wanted to ñame the club Trapicaría,
but because of the difficulties presented by procuring copyright for the use
of the ñame, he decided to change the ñame to El Trópico.

2. With the term Fidelista, I am referring to members of Fidel Castro 's
Movimiento 26 de Julio.

3. All direct quotes from García come from The Making of The Lost
City, DVD special feature, or from the directoras commentary DVD feature.

4. For example, the music of renowned Afro-Cuban musician and com-
poser Israel "Cachão" López, the HBO film For Love or Country: The Arturo
Sandoval Story, in addition to writing original music for The Lost City.

5. Lyrics for this song include the refrain, "Cachita, muchacha / Te picó
la abeja / Cachita, no llores / Te picó la abeja."

6. Abakuá tradition traces back to the Calabar área of West Africa, near
the border of Cameroon and Nigeria. Slaves from this área set up mutual-
aid societies, known as Abakuá secret societies, in Havana, Matanzas and
Cárdenas. The music of their special ceremonies included several styles of
drums, accompanied by a cowbell, sticks, and rattles (Rodríguez 826).

7. Throughout this paper, I will be referring to Cabrera Infante's novel
Tres tristes tigres with the abbreviation TTT.

8. For more on the destabilizing effect of orality in literature, see Walter
Ong's Orality and Literacy: The Technologizing of the Word (1988) and
Carlos Pacheco's La comarca oral: la ficcionalización de la oralidad cultural
en la narrativa latinoamericana contemporánea (1992).

9. Although Shumway's arricie specifically analyzes the role of rock
'n' roll sound tracks in nostalgia films, the parallels between the music of
Cuba in the late 1950s and the rock 'n' roll music of the films he discusses
are apparent.

Viewing History through Exile 1 7

10. The experience of exile was one of the principie motivating factors
for producer/director/actor Andy García in this project. According to García,
"As an exile, that profound nostalgia that I think all exiles feel promoted in
me a necessity to dig into the country which I carne from, historically, cultur-
ally, and, specifically, musically."

11. For more on Jameson's discussion of "nostalgia film," see Post-
modernism, or, the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism (1991).

12. Although Pérez Firmat's work El año que viene estamos en Cuba
describes the exile experience of Cubans in Miami during his adolescence in
the 1970s, there are numerous parallels between his text and Fico's experiences
in New York. One must keep in mind also that, whereas most of Cabrera
Infante's exile took place in London as an adult. García grew up in the Cuban
communities of South Florida and is a contemporary of Pérez Firmat.

13. Although Vista del amanecer en el trópico was not published until
1974, Cabrera Infante had begun writing these vignettes in the early 60s,
some of which later became portions of 7TT.

Works Cited

Alvarez Borland, Isabel. Cuban-American Literature of Exile: From Person
to Persona. Charlottsville: U. of Virginia Press, 1998.

Cabrera Infante, Guillermo. Ella cantaba boleros. Madrid: Santillana,
1996.

. "Memoria plural: Entrevista con Danubio Torres Fierro." Infantería.

México: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1999. 1066-97.

. Tres tristes tigres. Barcelona: Seix Barrai, S.A., 1983.

. Vista del amanecer en el trópico. Barcelona: Seix Barrai, S.A., 1981.

Jameson, Fredric. "On Magic Realism in Film." Criticai Inquiry Vol. 12, No.

2. (Winter, 1986): 301-325.
. Postmodernism, or, the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism. Durham,

N.C.: Duke UP, 1991.
MacAdam, Alfred. "Confessio Amantis." Revista Iberoamericana Vol. 57,

No. 154 (1991): 203-213.
Nelson, Ardis. Cabrera Infante in the Menippean Tradition. Newark, D.E.:

Juan de la Cuesta, 1983.
Ong, Walter J. Orality and Literacy: The Technologizing of the Word.

London; New York: Routledge, 1988.
Pacheco, Carlos. La comarca oral: la ficcionalización de la oralidad cultural

en la narrativa latinoamericana contemporánea. Caracas: Ediciones La

Casa de Bello, 1992.

18 Gabriel Ignacio Barreneche

Pérez Firmat, Gustavo. El año que viene estamos en Cuba. Houston: Arte

Público Press, 1997.
Rodríguez, Olavo Alen. "Cuba." The Garland Encyclopedia of World Music.

Vol. 2. Eds. Dale A. Olsen and Daniel E. Sheehy. New York: Garland

Publishing, Inc., 1998. 822-839.
Shumway, David R. "Rock 'n' Roll Sound Tracks and the Production of

Nostalgia." Cinema Journal Vol 38, No. 2. (1999): 36-51.
Souza, Raymond D. Guillermo Cabrera Infante: Two Islands, Many Worlds.

Austin: U o f Texas Press, 1996.
Swanson, Philip. The New Novel in Latin America: Politics and Popular

Culture After the Boom. Manchester: Manchester UP, 1995.
The Lost City. Screenplay by Guillermo Cabrera Infante. Dir. Andy García.

DVD. Magnolia Films, 2006.

Idas y venidas en la España
contemporánea: los casos de Volver, de
Pedro Almodóvar y Calzados Lola, de
Suso de Toro

Eduardo Barros Grela

California State University Northridge

[. . .] nadie sabe bien cuánto me tarda el partir. Ya me voy,
ya marcho, me digo, y mi corazón se vuelve loco de contento.

Calzados Lola

El cambio de siglo ha dejado claras muestras de nuevos cambios
de paradigma. La profetización apocalíptica esgrimida por Francis
Fukuyama con respecto al "fin de la historia" plasmó la reformula-
ción teórica que llevaba años mascándose en los ámbitos académicos.
Su arriesgada afirmación en torno a la llegada en la época actual al
fin de las ideologías y al fin de la historia repercutió claramente en
las líneas de teorización del nuevo orden mundial tras los atentados
del 11 de septiembre en la ciudad de Nueva York. Así, críticos cul-
turales como Román de la Campa, Ernesto Laclan, Néstor García
Canclini o Noam Chomsky hablaron de una fulminación inminente
del siglo XXI tras estos ataques como los fundamentos de un nuevo
cambio de paradigma epistemológico,, Ya Gonzalo Navajas (1996)
había anticipado (aunque en el ámbito estético) un inmediato des-
gaste del paradigma posmoderno, extenuado en su aporia, y en
favor de un emergente episteme que llamó "neomoderno" y cuya
presencia se plasma a partir de la última década del siglo XX en
España (153). Esta esfera de una neomodernidad que convive con
la posmodernidad a la vez que la cuestiona es apropiada para desa-
rrollar una nueva conceptualización ontológica en la que se impone
la re-significación del sujeto como cúmulo de órganos sin cuerpo,
como una desintegración del cuerpo en su forma, "aséptica" e imper-
meable: la posthumanidad.' En este ámbito de la deconstrucción
del sujeto desde una conceptualización, más que incorpórea, de una

MESTER, VOL. XXXVI (2007) 19

20 Eduardo Barros Grela

corporalidad cambiante, resurge la figura del fantasma como pro-
puesta actancial de la identidad reconstruida de ese sujeto.

En este estudio me propongo discutir las formas en las que estas
consideraciones teóricas se articulan en el ámbito de la textualidad
literaria y fílmica en España, en particular a través del análisis de
la novela de Calzados Lola (1998) de Suso de Toro, y de Volver, la
producción fílmica que Pedro Almodóvar termina en 2006. Ambas
obras exploran la nostalgia como fundamento actancial de la identi-
dad individual y colectiva, desde la discusión de la herencia cultural
proyectada a través de la herencia familiar (y, en particular, de la
madre), así como de la vuelta al ámbito rural como alternativa a la
paralización de la urbanidad posmoderna, sin dejar de atender a la
contradicción derivada de la búsqueda de un pasado que conlleva,
irremisiblemente, la re-escritura de ese pasado. El objetivo de este
regreso se presenta, así, como la creación de nuevas espacialidades
que deconstruyan las estructuras categóricas de las anteriores formas
de entender el espacio cultural en España (la tan afamada separación
entre lo rural y lo urbano). Es así como en estas dos obras se pre-
sentan personajes de cuya corporalidad tangible no hay constancia
("Es como si estuviera muerto. ¡Soy un fantasma!" [Toro 220]), lo
que sirve a los textos para expresar la preocupación teórica acerca
de las nuevas formas de humanidad regeneradas a partir de otros
modelos más tradicionales de existencia. Es de particular interés que
ambos autores hagan uso de figuras fantasmales para formular sus
posturas hacia lo posthumano, ya que estas figuras implican siempre
una reconceptualización del pasado y, mediante la invitación a enten-
der a todos los personajes como fantasmas, una reconceptualización
también del propio sujeto. Estas dos obras permitirán, por lo tanto,
explorar detalladamente las "idas y venidas" de la identidad subjetiva
colectiva en la España contemporánea a través de la movilización
física como forma de creación de nuevas espacialidades, así como de
la movilización "metafísica" como articulación de los nuevos para-
digmas posthumanos que cuestionan la integridad del cuerpo. Esta
exploración tendrá una plasmación teórica a partir de los supuestos
planteados por Guattari en torno a la importancia de la nostalgia para
la creación de una "disutopía" fundamentada en el redescubrimiento
del pasado como cuestionamiento del presente y, siguiendo esa línea,
la aportación de Baudrillard a la preocupación acerca de la búsqueda
obsesiva del origen.

Idas y tenidas en la España contemporánea 2 1

Calzados Lola tiene como protagonista a Manuel, un emigrante
gallego en Madrid cuyas aspiraciones se reducen a escalar social-
mente por medio de sus contactos en el mundo laboral de dudosa
reputación al que pertenece, entre cuyas funciones está la del espio-
naje a través de escuchas telefónicas. En una de estas escuchas,
Manuel recoge información comprometedora para su propio jefe y
procede a hacerle entrega de la grabación. Sin embargo, segundos
antes de hacerlo, recibe una llamada por telefonía móvil, entrecor-
tada y sin apenas recepción, que le informa de la inminente muerte
de su madre en Galicia. Manuel abandona precipitadamente Madrid,
sin haber llegado a hacer entrega de la grabación, lo que provoca un
proceso de regreso a su tierra natal teñido por una trama de persecu-
ciones, amores y asesinatos. En ese viaje, en el que Manuel importa
elementos urbanos al ámbito rural y viceversa, el protagonista se
enfrentará a una identidad definida por la constante ida y venida,
tanto interior como exterior.

En una dinamicidad similar, podemos observar cómo las prota-
gonistas de Volver emprenden un camino hacia el ámbito rural (tanto
físico como imaginado). Tres mujeres viven la clásica dinámica migra-
toria del campo hacia la ciudad, con continuas visitas de regreso al
pueblo, pero cada vez más espaciadas temporalmente. Sin embargo, los
trágicos acontecimientos sucedidos a raíz de diferentes fallecimientos y
la consecuente presencia de figuras fantasmales hacen que esa relación
con el ámbito rural se plasme en una presencia mucho mayor de éste,
y que las mujeres protagonistas inviertan el movimiento migratorio
para convertir la alternativa rural en una opción plausible para todas
ellas, tanto mediante una presencia mayor suya en el campo como con
una incorporación de éste a su "identidad urbana."

Este camino de regreso parece cuestionar las afirmaciones de
Nathan Richardson (2002) acerca del presunto abandono de la narra-
tiva (literaria y fílmica) española de los espacios rurales que habían
sido tan importantes unos años antes. Richardson sostiene que la sal-
vedad a ese abandono son las letras de las 'comunidades periféricas,'
que sí se ocupan del ámbito rural (233). El camino que emprende
Almodóvar primero con La mala educación y, sobre todo, con Volver
hacia un espacio rural pueden dar un giro interesante al estudio pro-
puesto por Richardson, quien acierta al afirmar la tendencia estética
de las literaturas (y del cine) vasca y gallega a generar ambientaciones
que tengan como protagonista a ese espacio de pueblo/aldea donde

22 Eduardo Barros Grela

se halla una confrontación — desde el pasado — del presente con sus
personajes. Calzados Lola es, de esta forma, un 'volver' mediatizado
por la idea original del "partir," en un movimiento que cuestiona la
herencia cultural del franquismo tardío en la producción de identidad
de la subjetividad del gallego.'

Otra de las acertadas conclusiones alcanzadas por Richardson
(2001) afirma que el uso de la tecnología en la obra de Suso de Toro
invita a encontrarse con nuevas formas en las que la identidad de
los personajes queda supeditada a la actuación de estos dispositivos
ajenos a la condición humana (teléfonos móviles, aparatos de escucha,
tratamiento de imagen, etc). Es posible que la presencia de la tecnolo-
gía vaya incluso más allá y se utilice como instrumento de conexión
con las formas espectrales que aparecen en Calzados Lola, como
puente de enlace entre lo propiamente inhumano y la redistribución
físico-orgánica de lo post-humano. No es necesario recordar la rele-
vante presencia de esa misma tecnología en muchas de las propuestas
fílmicas de Almodóvar, con la que el director manchego problematiza
la producción de identidades a partir de representaciones de la iden-
tidad individual.

En el caso de Volver, tanto la comunicación telefónica como
la presencia televisiva juegan un importante papel en la confusión
que pretende definir a los principales personajes, ya que introducen
elementos tecnológicos en el cuerpo rural (es el caso de los teléfonos
móviles cuyo uso se exagera de forma grotesca en la casa rural), o
insertan personajes pueblerinos en el corazón de la tecnología en su
vertiente más antisublime (un "reality show" de la televisión). Esa tec-
nología tiene un papel protagonista en la articulación del movimiento
que define las características de la nueva espacialidad entre lo rural
y lo urbano, representada por personajes pertenecientes al ámbito
rural tradicional que se mueven con suma facilidad ante las antaño
inaccesibles innovaciones tecnológicas.

Calzados Lola puede ser entendida como una 'novela negra rural,'
en lo que parece ser un claro oxímoron en referencia a la naturaleza
misma del concepto de novela negra tal y como la describe Raymond
Chandler, al afirmar que "la novela negra es la novela del mundo
profesional del crimen."^ Esta definición del autor norteamericano se
asocia directamente con el ámbito urbano, y se enfoca en la desilusión
de una vida urbana definida por la alienación de los valores "cultural-
mente heredados," y en respuesta al deslizamiento de sus significantes

Idas y venidas en la España contemporánea 23

culturales. La novela negra norteamericana, como se sabe, ha tenido
una gran influencia en la narrativa española de los años 80 y 90, y en
el caso de Calzados Lola da un paso más para adentrarse en la espa-
cialidad del viaje (de regreso) a la "profundidad" peninsular, al ámbito
rural en su expresión más opuesta al clásico entorno urbano de la
novela negra. El viaje de retorno a un pasado caduco, inexistente — un
tema que también se ha observado en obras anteriores de Almodóvar
{La mala educación o Átame, por ejemplo) — sirve para legitimar las
acciones de sus protagonistas, que actualizan ese pasado en favor de
una redefinición de su presente. En Volver, que es definida en varios
medios** como un homenaje a La Mancha, Almodóvar plantea de
forma más explícita la cualidad fantasmagórica de esa plasmación
histórica que representa la figura de la madre, recipiente de la herencia
cultural de una identidad carente de referentes fijos en una situación
sociopolítica e histórica que invita a la fluctuación de esas identidades.
La presencia de elementos fantasmales también se plasma en Calzados
Lola, cuya articulación de dimensiones adyacentes a la realidad cono-
cida persigue objetivos que cuestionan las espacialidades tal y como
las entienden los protagonistas.

Los personajes de estas obras se hallan a sí mismos en situacio-
nes comprometidas (homicidios, secuestros, negocios de sospechosa
legalidad, etc.) cuya responsabilidad ceden a un entorno urbano que
funciona como delimitador de las [re-escritas] libertades de sus oríge-
nes pre-postmodernos, unas libertades de actuación que la nostalgia
les permite fabricar. En ese entorno apático de la gran ciudad, los
personajes de Volver y de Calzados Lola se encuentran hastiados por
la cosificación de sus rutinas, entregados a un devenir aletargado, y
alienados de su "identidad de origen." Sin embargo, lejos de establecer
un binarismo entre el ámbito rural y el ámbito urbano, ambos textos
proponen una confluencia de espacialidades que ruralizan el entorno
urbano y urbanizan el entorno rural, en una suerte de articulación
local de las formas en las que los espacios públicos adquieren sig-
nificación a través de las prácticas de la vida diaria de quienes usan
esos espacios.^

Volver, rodada por Pedro Almodóvar en 2006, relata las historias
de madres e hijas de dos familias vecinas que se han visto unidas de
diversas maneras a lo largo de su historia. Por un lado, Raimunda
(Penélope Cruz), ante la reciente muerte de su madre, mantiene una
relación muy estrecha con su hija y con su hermana, relación que les

24 Eduardo Barros Grela

ha permitido superar su importante pérdida familiar. Paralela a la his-
toria de Raimunda, se presenta la vida de Agustina (Blanca Portillo),
cuya madre también "desapareció" el mismo día en que murió la
madre de Raimunda. La historia da un giro inesperado (y sorpren-
dente, si se tiene en cuenta la anterior producción fílmica del director)
cuando la madre muerta se le aparece a una de las hijas y comienza a
llevar una vida "normal" al lado de éstas. La duda acerca de si esta
aparición es un fantasma o no nunca llega a resolverse completamente
para los personajes, lo cual le confiere una identidad difusa, incom-
pleta. Desde el principio de la historia, el espectador se enfrenta a un
ambiente fantasmagórico que presagia el devenir de los acontecimien-
tos. Las cuatro protagonistas "vivas" se encuentran en un cementerio
repleto de mujeres que, bajo una fuerte ventisca, sacan brillo con
autómata tenacidad a las tumbas de sus seres queridos (masculinos)
fallecidos. Esa pequeña necrópolis no se halla en el espacio habitual
de Raimunda y su familia urbana, sino en el ámbito rural al que perte-
necía su recientemente fenecida madre. Sin embargo, la ambientación
propia de esa urbanidad que les es natural a las protagonistas, se aleja
de la representación moderna de la ciudad para habilitar un espacio
que integra las costumbres importadas del pueblo en la configuración
heterogénea y voluble propia de las espacialidades posmodernas.

Esta integración molecular de las identidades espaciales de las
protagonistas obedece a una dinámica deconstructiva de las esferas
tradicionales de la modernidad. A lo largo del texto fílmico, no sor-
prende al espectador — por su nimiedad — el contraste establecido entre
el ámbito rural y el urbano. Las dinámicas que se siguen en uno y otro
parecen perpetuarse bajo la superficialidad de un cambio de formato: la
rutina inerte que caracteriza las costumbres pueblerinas aparece como
transposición del ámbito urbano. Las mujeres limpian con obstinación
las lápidas en el cementerio, aun sabiendo que su tarea es pragmática-
mente inútil puesto que el viento arrastra tierra que ensucia con mayor
tesón lo que ellas acaban de abrillantar. Su actividad muestra la mono-
tonía de una rutina cuya esencia subyace en el propio espacio en el que
se realiza: el espacio que es común a todos los pueblos, el cementerio.
El aeropuerto, donde trabaja Raimunda también es significante porque
fusiona la cotidianeidad posmoderna con lo impersonal y repetido; el
aeropuerto es el "no espacio" por excelencia. Como limpiadora de este
espacio fantasmagórico y transitorio las identidades se diluyen en tipo-
logías. La propia subjetividad de Raimunda se desvanece en su ámbito

Idas y venidas en la España contemporánea 25

profesional como uno más de los espectros que habitan efímeramente
el impersonal espacio de los aeropuertos.

Refiriéndose a la situación de la clase trabajadora, Félix Guattari
y Antonio Negri exponen que "el resentimiento, la repetición vacía,
y el sectarismo constituyen las modalidades en las cuales se viven las
esperanzas traicionadas" (73). Guattari conceptualiza el proceder de
la nostalgia como forma de transgresión de las rutinas establecidas
mediante la articulación de lo que él llama el futuro anterior — un
futuro predeterminado — y que relaciona directamente con su formula-
ción de la "disutopía" (79). Los personajes de Volver se adhieren a ese
futuro predeterminado e insoslayablemente condicionado, por sus res-
pectivos pasados fantasmales que no sólo definen su herencia cultural
anterior, sino que se redefinen a sí mismos en un presente restringido
por el solape de una epistemología determinada por el silencio.

A lo largo de la película, el espectador puede observar que la con-
signa es "callar," en un acuerdo tácito entre los personajes para que
haya sucesos que se olviden, que pasen a formar parte del rumor, del
silencio, del viento solano de la locura. Aquel silencio pretérito como
eliminación de voces se reconceptualiza en estas obras como discurso
"callado" que otorga actancialidad a quienes lo profesan. Este mismo
silenciamiento se ejerce en el ámbito urbano en el que Raimunda desa-
rrolla su actividad diaria, ya que la protagonista no vacilará a la hora
de ocultar la muerte de su pareja para salvaguardar la integridad de su
hija. A pesar de la complicidad existente entre todas las figuras femeni-
nas de la historia, no cabe duda de que el silencio, el secreto aceptado,
la herencia del rumor del viento del pueblo forma parte importante de
sus identidades.

Siguiendo con los planteamientos propuestos por Guattari (Cap.
VI "Pensar y vivir de otro modo: propuestas" [1999]), podemos afir-
mar que se produce una vuelta a las raíces humanas, una búsqueda
del retorno a los orígenes de la esperanza: "[la búsqueda de] un 'ser
para,' de una intencionalidad colectiva orientada al hacer más que a un
'ser contra' estancado en las salmodias impotentes del resentimiento"
(77). La aceptación de ese silencio se transforma en la propuesta de
Almodóvar en una forma de transgresión desde la que recuperar las
nociones de la memoria, del pasado colectivo, pero desde una postura
(de)constructiva, más que destructiva, más allá de la fórmula tradicio-
nal de la nostalgia como fuente creadora de pasados reconstruidos. El
resentimiento, como forma axiológica, se ha establecido en la España de

26 Eduardo Barros Grela

la Transición y, desde el hartazgo de las sempiternas disputas de sus dos
facciones, se hace necesario un "pensar, vivir, experimentar y combatir
de otro modo" (Guattari y Negri 79).

Se puede afirmar, por lo tanto, que la obra de Almodóvar gira en
torno a un discurso de integración de lo urbano con lo rural con el
fin de obtener una forma de conocimiento no estancada en los valores
fijos y tradicionales del contrapunto ideológico. La articulación de
este nuevo discurso propone una construcción continua de la realidad
contemporánea, en la que haya espacio para las diferentes voces, así
como para la ausencia de las mismas. El silencio y el rumor aparecen
como discursos legítimos que albergan tanta carga semántica como
las voces que los interrumpen. En esta esfera tibia de las fragmenta-
das fronteras entre ambas espacialidades se halla la figura fantasmal
de Irene (Carmen Maura), personaje que ha fallecido en uno de los
múltiples incendios que determinan la idiosincrasia del pueblo natal
de las protagonistas, aunque, evidentemente, el desarrollo posterior
de la trama descubrirá que esta muerte no había sido tal. Esta entidad
fantasmagórica funciona como símbolo equívoco de la espacialidad
fronteriza que determina los nuevos paradigmas epistemológicos de
una sociedad determinada por la reincorporación silenciosa de ele-
mentos fundacionales del pasado a una reescritura perpetua de esa
identidad "neomoderna." Tanto los personajes que rodean a la figura
de Irene como los propios espectadores se asientan en un estado de
duda ante la presencia de la madre de Raimunda. Su aparición se
corresponde con la definición de ese viento solano que causa tantos
trastornos a los habitantes de su pueblo de origen. No obstante, el
estado de incertidumbre que caracteriza a la presencia de este per-
sonaje no es exclusivo del ámbito rural, sino que acompaña a los
personajes hasta el espacio de la gran ciudad, Madrid.

Es significativo que el espacio escogido para el desarrollo de la his-
toria en el ambiente urbano sea el de las afueras de Madrid (Vallecas,
Tetuán), en particular el de barrios que han sido poblados por personas
que llegan a Madrid desde distintos puntos de la geografía española,
y que reconstruyen ese espacio urbano bajo las condiciones rurales
de sus diversos orígenes. Cabe notar en este apartado la relevancia de
las concomitancias demográficas con otros espacios cuya identidad
ha estado determinada por los movimientos migratorios. Mike Davis
hace referencia en su Magicai Urbanism (2001) al hecho de cómo la
diversidad que define a los diferentes pueblos que emigran hacia un

Idas y venidas en la España contemporánea 2 7

punto determinado termina por desaparecer en una amalgama que da
lugar a la otredad establecida por el cuerpo social receptor y dominante.
En Volver, podemos observar ese proceso por medio de los diferentes
personajes que conforman la taxonomía del barrio, un espacio proclive
a permitir actuaciones de in-betweenness como actitud efectiva de crea-
ción de nuevas identidades. Por este motivo, el barrio se hace idílico
para la presencia de un ser ilusorio que es la máxima representación de
esa figura de frontera, de esa subjetividad difusa cuya identidad es el
paradigma del "no pertenecer a ningún sitio. "^

No obstante, la realidad contemporánea de barrios como estos en la
España de la inmigración daría pie a posicionarse en favor de la incor-
poración de personajes que configurasen ese nuevo estado social del
urbanismo madrileño. ¿Por qué se decanta Almodóvar por un personaje
de las raíces de la España más tradicional? Según Jo Labanyi (2002),

It is often said that, with the exception of its Galician
"Celtic fringe," Spain has no tradition of ghost stories.
[..•11 should like here to draw on Derrida's historical-
materiaUst reading of ghosts in Specters of Marx (1994) in
order to argüe that the whole of modern Spanish culture —
its study and its practica — can be read as one big ghost
story. (1)

La lectura de Derrida que Labanyi aplica a la historiografía espa-
ñola se entiende desde la definición propuesta para el concepto de
"fantasma." Según Derrida (1994), los fantasmas son los rastros de
aquellos a quienes no se les permitió dejar un rastro: víctimas de la
historia, grupos subalternos, etc. Labanyi explica que, siguiendo esa
línea de pensamiento, la posmodernidad estaría caracterizada por el
reconocimiento de esos fantasmas creados por la modernidad. El per-
sonaje de Irene parece cumplir con las caracterizaciones que se hacen
de la entidad fantasmal: su actuación vital ha estado eminentemente
condicionada por una subyugación a un sistema patriarcal que la
ha silenciado, y su última marginalización, la que la legitima como
forma subalterna, parece revertir los valores sociales tradicionales de
la España descrita en Volver. Más adelante discutiré con más detalle
la resignificación de lo subalterno en el discurso cinematográfico,
pero quisiera insistir en la problematización de una formulación de
estos personajes como partes integrantes del discurso fantasmal que

28 Eduardo Barros Grela

define la historia presentada en la película. Si para Labanyi la cultura
moderna española puede ser interpretada como una gran historia de
fantasmas, de la misma forma, la articulación discursiva de Volver se
puede leer como un homenaje a esas figuras sin voz que han teñido
de silencio la historia reciente de España.

Gran parte de los personajes principales presentan rasgos típicos
de la discordancia existencial causada por el viento que se anuncia
en la escena inicial de la película. Ese viento, ese rumor, ese dador
de caos que es el solano cálido y sofocante interviene en la trama a
modo de recurrencia de una sinrazón (de forma paralela a como se
presentará el sonido (mental) del mar en el protagonista de Calzados
Lola). Esa apelación a la locura transitoria como "normalidad"
vigente en la vida del pueblo sirve para situar el tono discursivo
del relato en un estado de subalternidad legitimada. Si Raimunda
se caracteriza por su pragmatismo y por el predominio de la razón
en su posición frente al mundo, en el momento en el que ha de
enfrentarse a un suceso que rompe su característica monotonía (el
asesinato de Paco [Antonio de la Torre] por parte de su hija ante
el intento de violación por parte de aquél), Raimunda procede con
plena normalidad en su actuación como sujeto delictivo. El rumor
del viento solano legitima su identificación con la normalidad del
acto criminal perpetrado por ella y por su hija Paula (Yohana
Cobo), cuya rutina tampoco parece profundamente afectada por
el acto cometido. En el caso de Sole (Lola Dueñas), sorprende la
meticulosidad con la que incorpora la presencia de su madre a su
rutina diaria, acordando soluciones inverosímiles para justificar la
anexión de la última a la vida de la primera, independientemente de
su condición como ente natural o sobrenatural. Es de especial interés
la conversación que Sole mantiene con su madre con respecto a cuál
ha de ser la identidad que ésta adquiera para no levantar sospechas
entre la clientela de su improvisada peluquería doméstica. En esa
conversación, además de servir como antecedente de lo que será una
de las referencias más claras al silenciamiento del 'otro,' se ponen de
manifiesto las tendencias inertes a producir una identidad generali-
zada y estereotipada de lo subalterno cuando ambas mujeres hablan
de adoptar una identidad de mujer indigente china, rusa o de otras
nacionalidades. Algo similar sucede con la reacción de Agustina ante
la posibilidad factual de estar tratando con un fantasma: se incor-
pora esa contingencia a la violenta comprensión del día a día.

Idas y venidas en la España contemporánea 29

En todos estos personajes hay una clara aceptación de esa anomalía,
aceptación que viene determinada por la propia condición fantasmagó-
rica de todos ellos. Raimunda aparece en repetidas ocasiones limpiando:
en su trabajo en el aeropuerto; en el cementerio; tras la muerte de su
pareja, en el restaurante, etc. Esa obsesión (y necesidad) de limpiarse
de máculas es referencial a una existencia fantasmal fundamentada en
la ficción de su creación nuclear familiar; en apariencia responde a los
cánones establecidos, pero en su interior es sabedora de que su pareja
no es el padre natural de su hija y que ella misma, Raimunda, dio a luz
a su hija como consecuencia de las sucesivas violaciones por parte de
su padre. Esa ficción como máscara de culpabilidades es transmitida
a Paula, cuya sombría participación en la trama se ve acusada en el
momento en el que descubre que la posición familiar que había definido
su identidad ha quedado destruida, primero por la eliminación física de
la figura paternal que ella misma ejecuta y, después, por la eliminación
existencial del concepto de "padre," precipitada por el conocimiento de
una verdad ulterior con respecto a su progenie. Sole y Agustina viven
aletargadas, una tras su experiencia matrimonial y, en cierta medida,
resignada a un devenir que ya no tiene mucho que ofrecerle, y la otra
atada a ensoñaciones que la liberen del yugo geográfico que es — en su
caso, obligado — el pueblo.

El hecho de que un fantasma "explícito" aparezca en las vidas de
estos personajes no sólo no es causa de pavor entre ellos, sino que les
sirve como alivio a sus soledades sociales y existenciales, dando sen-
tido a una lucha que parecía carecer de objetivos. Esa lucha se puede
entender a la luz de lo que dice Baudrillard (1984) para ahondar en
la repercusión de la inercia en la disposición del ser humano ante el
universo:

A lo más verdadero que lo verdadero opondremos lo más
falso que lo falso. No enfrentaremos lo bello y lo feo,
buscaremos lo más feo que lo feo: lo monstruoso. No
enfrentaremos lo visible a lo oculto, buscaremos lo más
oculto que lo oculto: el secreto. No buscaremos el cambio
ni enfrentaremos lo fijo y lo móvil, buscaremos lo más
móvil que lo móvil: la metamorfosis. No diferenciaremos lo
verdadero de lo falso, buscaremos lo más falso que lo falso:
la ilusión y la apariencia. (6) (el énfasis es mío).

30 Eduardo Barros Grela

Así, las mujeres que conforman el núcleo actancial principal de
este texto fílmico hacen uso de su mirada para retornar a un espacio
cognitivo que les permita destruir la inercia establecida en sus actuacio-
nes diarias. Sin embargo, la violencia de un discurso hegemónico que
invita inexorablemente al letargo hace que la única forma que hallen
de enfrentarse a ese discurso sea mediante una apropiación del mismo,
buscando y legitimando lo más feo que lo feo — el asesinato; lo más
oculto que lo oculto — los silencios; lo más móvil que lo móvil — la meta-
morfosis del espacio; y lo más falso que lo falso — los fantasmas. De esta
forma, y ante los episodios traumáticos que viven, tanto los personajes
de Calzados Lola como los de Volver aceptan el reto de ficcionalizar su
percepción, afirmando así la condición fantasmagórica de su entorno
y de sí mismos. El entorno que habrán de manejar se definirá por la
aceptación de la realidad en la propia ilusión (Fiennes 3'45"^'47"), por
la búsqueda de lo verdadero en lo más falso que lo falso.

El caso más representativo de esta ficcionalización es el de Irene,
quien ante los sucesivos y violentos descubrimientos que determinan
su realidad, decide adoptar una identidad de realidad desde la ilusión.''
Esta estrategia aparece representada en el texto fílmico a través del
rumor del viento, cuya manifestación inicial en el discurso narrativo
perdura hasta el final de la película por medio de una presencia
fantasmagórica; por medio del rumor.^ En continua analogía con el
personaje de Irene, del que los demás personajes no son plenamente
capaces de afirmar su presencia aunque ésta les conste empíricamente,
el rumor del viento, su sombra y su rastro determinan las acciones
de esos mismos personajes.^ La realidad de los efectos frenopáticos
del viento a través de la ilusión de su rumor funciona como deto-
nante de las acciones de los personajes protagonistas en busca de una
deconstrucción de la axiología dominante. Esta deconstrucción es una
herramienta de recuperación, de resignificación y de legitimación de
los discursos subalternos que habían sido marginados por la subli-
mación del totalitarismo en la historia contemporánea de España,
aun insistiendo en incorporarlos desde su realidad, perteneciente a la
ilusión e inseparable de ella. Tal y como afirma Avery Gordon, "[. . .]
finding the shape described by absence captures perfectly the paradox
of tracking through time and across all those forces that which makes
its mark by being there and not there at the same time" (6). El viento
funciona como ese rumor fantasmal, cuya presencia es una ausencia,
y cuyas huellas infieren una duda a la realidad de su existencia. Del

Idas y venidas en la España contemporánea i 1

mismo modo en que Almodóvar dota a sus personajes de un halo
fantasmagórico para reconstruir el sistema de valores establecido en la
sociedad española de principios del siglo XXI, Suso Toro había utili-
zado en 1999 técnicas semejantes a la hora de construir un discurso de
generación de espacios que se convertiría en su novela Calzados Lola.
Uno de los mayores logros del texto fílmico propuesto por Almodóvar
radica en afirmar la condición subalterna de sus personajes como
parodia de la idiosincrasia de los grupos dominantes. En la propuesta
novelística de Toro, podemos ver un esquema narrativo similar en bús-
queda de una problematización paralela del espacio como productor
de identidades. Rikki Morgan-Tamosunas indica que, "[. . .] despite
its location in the past, the popular appeal of the nostalgia film signáis
it as an important cultural barometer of the present. [. . .] Cultural
and politicai postmodernity is experienced as a series of disorienta-
ting effects producing a sense of loss of individual identity, roots and
community" (2000, 119).

Ya hemos visto cómo los personajes femeninos de Volver empren-
den un camino — físico e imaginario — hacia el ámbito rural. De la
misma forma nos hallamos en Calzados Lola ante personajes cuyas
identidades se definen en espacialidades fronterizas que tienden
puentes entre un presente reconceptualizado y un pasado que había
sido olvidado, marginado, silenciado. En el monólogo que abre la
novela, podemos observar una exigencia de actancialidad por parte
de la narradora: insiste en su deseo obsesivo por 'partir,' en lo que
es una clara referencia al movimiento migratorio que caracterizó a
la sociedad gallega de mediados del siglo XX. Sin embargo, el deseo
de partir de la voz hablante no es para dejar su tierra, su espacio, y
en búsqueda de un futuro más próspero. La marcha que anuncia es
hacia la muerte y, sin embargo, no es una marcha autómata, pasiva.
La "voz" que llora esos deseos repite que le da la bienvenida a la
muerte, pero que no es esa muerte quien viene a buscarla, sino que
es ella, la madre del protagonista, quien se lanza en su busca. De esta
aproximación inicial a Calzados Lola, igual como sucede en Volver,
se destacan dos temas importantes: primeramente, la muerte, a través
de sus repetidas manifestaciones desde el comienzo de ambas obras;
en segundo lugar, la inestabilidad temporal, o alternancia cronológica
narrativa. Hay una tendencia a identificar la voz narrativa del prota-
gonista masculino (Manuel) con el presente narrativo, mientras que
esas intrusiones sensoriales intercaladas en la narración se entienden

32 Eduardo Barros Grela

como manifestaciones de un pasado dada su condición postuma. Cabe
mencionar con respecto a esta segunda idea presente en el inicio del
texto que el discurso del pasado se ubica, por lo tanto, en Galicia
mientras que el del presente parte desde Madrid, y el hecho de que
ambas temporalidades se difuminen con la progresión de la narrativa
es indicativo del marco espacio-temporal basado en la ambigüedad
que se utiliza como ambientación de la historia y que la caracteri-
zará en sus diferentes dimensiones hermenéuticas. La muerte aparece
como discurso recurrente en las obras que están siendo analizadas
en este ensayo. En Calzados Lola, la invitación al lector a ambientar
su lectura desde un prisma luctuoso parece destinada a evocar esa
melancolía que ha sido descrita como característica del sujeto galaico-
portugués. Ese sentido de nostalgia (o morriña) se caracteriza por un
abandono de la subjetividad a la inercia del sentimiento, convirtién-
dose éste en un estado de parálisis que se intensifica con el incremento
del pensamiento; es ese "dolor del conocimiento" (Toro 8).

La infeliz entrega del Manuel residente en Madrid a una rutina
desesperanzada se hace evidente en lo malhumorado de su carácter.
Siempre actuando a la defensiva, Manuel se define a sí mismo como
una persona pragmática, instalada en el hic et nunc y desinteresada
de cualquier planificación que entrañe un compromiso: "Mañana es
otro día. Mañana quién sabe" (21). Su dedicación profesional no se ve
correspondida con un ánimo de prosperar, sino que parece obedecer
a una dinámica vital fundamentada en la supervivencia a corto plazo.
Según Baudrillard, "[. . .1 en un sistema en el que las cosas están cada
vez más entregadas al azar, la finalidad se convierte en delirio, y desa-
rrolla unos elementos que saben perfectamente superar su fin hasta
invadir la totalidad del sistema" (1983, 10), observación que explica
la ausencia de objetivos concretos en el personaje entregado a la
inercia de una rutina pero en búsqueda de una identidad. Del mismo
modo, Manuel difumina la suya en una búsqueda similar, en lo que
parece una aplicación del discurso de Baudrillard: "Histeria inversa
a la de las finalidades: la histeria de causalidad, correspondiente a la
desaparición simultánea de los orígenes y de las causas: búsqueda
obsesiva del origen, de la responsabilidad, de la referencia, intento
de agotar los fenómenos incluso en sus causas infinitesimales" (1983,
11). Manuel se encuentra en una situación de parálisis, tanto en su
búsqueda como en su aceptación de la rutina, causada por la súbita
desaparición de los vínculos con su origen.

Idas y venidas en la España contemporánea 33

Encontramos en el personaje de Manuel claras referencias tanto a
la "histeria de las finalidades" como a la "histeria de la causalidad."
El desarraigo que muestra por todo lo que se escape de su inmediatez
de conocimiento: "No me acordaba de mi casa para nada. Vivía lo que
cada nuevo día me ponía delante de un modo automático" (19). Manuel
se va transformando a lo largo de la narrativa en un reconocimiento
de la ausencia — de la falta — de un origen reconocible. El viaje que
Manuel emprende hacia Galicia motivado por la muerte de su madre
y dejando atrás un Madrid repleto de cabos sueltos ha de entenderse
como la inversión de ese desarraigo, que dirige ahora su desdén hacia la
monotonía de la vida urbana y que da lugar a una búsqueda referencial
de un origen que se ha ido enmoheciendo con la ausencia del personaje.
No obstante, el automatismo que Manuel ha ido interiorizando en su
desarrollo, tampoco ahora le abandona. Cuando recibe la llamada que
le obUga a volver a su pueblo, el espectro que lo liga a su subjetividad
urbana se acentúa al perder contacto sensorial con la realidad en la que
lleva a cabo su actividad diaria. Incluso el sonido del teléfono parece
anticipar un estado fantasmagórico con sus continuas interrupciones y
cortes de voz. Manuel va a iniciar su viaje de regreso, su negación del
"partir," pero lo va a hacer desde un estado regido por elementos ajenos
a su identidad física y que denotan con su presencia una fascinación,
una perplejidad, una incertidumbre.

El mejor de los ejemplos para ilustrar este estado espectral es el
que corre paralelo al fundamental en Volver. Si allí afirmábamos que
el rumor del viento solano determinaba los designios de los persona-
jes, en Calzados Lola ese elemento fantasmagórico que se halla en un
estado fronterizo entre la presencia y la no presencia aparece represen-
tado por el rumor del mar: "Aquellos ruidos de mar" (16). De vez en
cuando, el Manuel que vive en Madrid se asusta con el rumor marino
que, saliendo de la nada, inunda sus oídos. No es una cuestión física,
sino psicológica, y Manuel parece no poder controlarla a pesar de lo
inquietante que le resulta. La memoria de su identidad olvidada se
manifiesta a través de un sonido que refiere a la matriz de su subjeti-
vidad, pero ese sonido externo del mar no tiene una existencia física,
no se puede concretizar. Sin embargo, es ese sonido el que determina
las acciones y las decisiones de Manuel a largo plazo, y es, a su vez,
lo que le confiere ese estado espectral que acompaña a la monotonía
de su rutina. La familia de Manuel parece estar condicionada por los
mismos fantasmas, aunque desde su entorno rural esto se produzca

34 Eduardo Barros Grela

de una manera mucho más concreta: "Cómo se oye el mar. Parece
que haya mar de fondo. Parece como si hablase. Como si dijera algo.
Cómo se oye el mar así, con los ojos cerrados, ¿no lo oyes? Es como
si se le metiese a uno dentro" (200).

Los golpes de mar psicológicos que acompañan a los principales
personajes de la narrativa de Toro tienen efectos inequívocos en la
construcción de las realidades que llevan a cabo. Ante esos rumores
marítimos, Manuel dice sentirse como si se hallase en una embarcación
que oscila con las mareas y con las marejadas: "Aquella clarividencia
solo duró un instante, pero fue mareante e insoportable" (21). Esos
mismos personajes, acostumbrados a vivir tras una lente que empaña
sus visiones, reaccionan de forma violenta ante un despertar de la rutina,
por efímero que éste sea. Tanto Manuel como su hermano Miguel han
cultivado una impostura existencial ante el desgaste ontológico al que
estaban condenados, cuyo exceso de inercia hacia el progreso conlleva
una paralización retrógrada en su desarrollo. Reflexionando sobre el
papel de la inercia en la conducta del individuo, explica Baudrillard que,
"[La solución puede estar en . . .] una desaceleración que permitiría
reingresar en la historia, en lo real, en lo social, como un satélite extra-
viado en el hiperespacio regresaría a la atmósfera terrestre" (37).

Siguiendo esta línea, se puede observar cómo los personajes de
Calzados Lola y de Volver se frenan, vuelven sus miradas, y siguen
en sentido inverso los pasos que en el pasado les hicieron partir entre
secretos, silencios y voces inventadas. Proponen una deceleración de la
inercia alienante moderna que reconcilie los elementos característicos
de la urbanidad más cosmopolita con los rasgos fundamentales del
ámbito rural y local, y buscan lograr así una espacialidad propia y en
continua reconstrucción que permita formular un presente aglutinante
de la memoria que ha dado lugar a sus subjetividades.

La presencia de lo fantasmagórico en ambas obras implica la
necesidad de actualizar de manera concreta las voces marginales que la
historia reciente del país determinó como non gratas. El hecho de que
en ambas familias haya secretos inefables que pertenecen al ámbito
de lo prohibido, del tabú, y que en estas narrativas se incorporen al
discurso dominante sin perder su condición intrínseca, indica un posi-
cionamiento epistemológico en el que se deconstruyen los discursos
hegemónicos y se propone una constante reconstrucción de las subje-
tividades que logre superar la ausencia de esos rastros como parte de
la identidad de un grupo cultural. Dice el hermano de Manuel: "Yo

Idas y venidas en la España contemporánea iS

no existo para él. [. . .] Sentí como si yo no fuese de vuestra familia.
No sé de quién soy" (Toro 217).

Cabe recordar que en Calzados Lola se sugiere que, a través de
las tecnologías, los muertos pueden comunicarse con los vivos y los
ausentes con los presentes; Miguel, el hermano del protagonista, está
convencido de que se comunica con su madre muerta a través de
un vídeo, y el propio Manuel muestra sus dudas con respecto a la
existencia de un ser que se identifique como su madre. La historia,
tanto familiar como nacional, y la melancolía se entrelazan en ambas
narrativas para formar una voz discordante ante los valores tradicio-
nales que se han desarrollado a partir de estos conceptos, y las voces
transformadas en rumores fantasmagóricos problematizan su propia
existencia y, con ella, la de los personajes mismos como sujetos.

Esa tradición embarcada en el pasado como referente histórico, así
como sus repercusiones en el presente, encuentra parangón en lo que
afirma Sloterdijk con respecto a que el siglo XX heredó del XIX una
paradoja desmoralizadora: un irremisible hastío vital causado por un
historicismo sublimado. El hombre histórico se siente abrumado por
el "eterno ruido de la época histórica," que le hace despertarse de ella
y hacer de la "historicidad" un concepto deprimente (Sloterdijk 112).
Este "eterno ruido de la época histórica" se ve desarrollado en las
narrativas de la España contemporánea, que continúan indagando en
las alternativas epistemológicas y axiológicas de la actualidad nacional.
El esquema binario que ha caracterizado las posiciones oficiales de la
maquinaria social española en cuanto a la necesidad o al inconveniente
de una recuperación de la memoria histórica muestra claros síntomas de
desgaste, e invita a reformular una estética que dé pie a vías alternativas
de conocimiento. Tanto de Toro como Almodóvar aciertan al expresar
una propuesta lúdica que cuestione esos binarismos tradicionales, y que
incorpore a los sectores subalternos a la reconstrucción del presente y a
la reconceptualización de las espacialidades emergentes en una sociedad
que necesita una profunda reorganización de sus valores. En Volver y
en Calzados Lola, la historia, como una de la herramientas para esa
reconstrucción, se incorpora a la discusión, y problematiza los silencios
que se han facilitado desde su entorno.

Podemos entender, por lo tanto, que en los dos casos de las
obras que han sido estudiadas en este ensayo se intenta contestar —
desde varios enfoques — a una preocupación más amplia que se hace
patente en los textos literarios y fílmicos más recientes del entorno

36 Eduardo Barros Grela

contemporáneo español: la representabilidad de una serie de espacia-
lidades hasta ahora inexistentes que están reconfigurando el panorama
epistemológico correspondiente al ámbito del actual Estado Español.
Esos diversos enfoques coinciden en Calzados Lola y en Volver al
discutir la creación de un espacio diferente que articula urbanidad
y ruralismo como propia forma de identidad. Al mismo tiempo, al
tratar la incorporación de seres pertenecientes al mundo de lo fantas-
magórico a la cotidianeidad del mundo de los vivos, ambos autores
abarcan terrenos de reescritura de identidades que cuestionan los
límites tradicionales de actuación de subjetividades, y los articulan con
la celebración de una impostura ontológica en continua fluctuación
como nuevo paradigma de la identidad de los pueblos españoles.

Notas

1. Para una discusión más detenida de lo "posthumano," ver
Badmington, Neil. Ed. Posthimianism. Nueva York: Palgrave, 2000.

2. Particularmente visible en los movimientos migratorios de la década
de los 60.

3. Chandler, Raymond. The Simple Art of Murder. Nueva York:
Vintage, 1988.

4. Pedro Almodóvar regresa con 'Volver,' una comedia en la que mira
a la muerte 'con naturalidad.' Diario El Mundo 14/03/2006

5. En concordancia con las propuestas de De Certeau en su The Practice
of Everyday Life.

6. Con esta cita hago referencia directa a la obra Dreaming in Cuban
(1992), de la escritora latina Cristina García. En ella, uno de los personajes
que funcionan como representación de la identidad fronteriza que sistematizó
Gloria Anzaldúa en Borderlands (1989), indica que "I don't belong anywhere,"
circunscribiendo así, su propia identidad a una configuración fantasmal que
encuentra parangón en el personaje de Irene que está siendo aquí discutido.

7. Pero no el único. Como ya se ha explicado con anterioridad, la
presencia fantasmal e ilusoria de los personajes es un rasgo común a todos
ellos.

8. Esta continua referencial idad a los vientos que traen consigo la locura
(o que, de por sí, son manifestaciones de esa locura) tienen una profunda
raigambre popular que ha dado pie a numerosas leyendas con figuras fantas-
males como protagonistas.

9. La confusión que inunda al espectador (y a los personajes) ante los
objetos propios del 'fantasma' se corresponde con ese estado de estupefacción

Idas y venidas en la España contemporánea 3 7

paralizante que Zizek discute como forma de afirmación de la autonomía del
objeto parcial (Fiennes, 23'43").

Obras citadas

Baudrillard, Jean. Las estrategias fatales. Barcelona: Anagrama, 1983.
Davis, Mike. Magicai Urbanism: Latinos Reinvent the US City. London:

Verso, 2001.
De Certeau, Michel. The Practice of Everyday Life. Berkeley: University of

California Press, 1984.
The Pervertís Guide to Cinema. Dir. Sophie Fiennes. Amoeba Films, 2006.
Fukuyama, Francis. The End of History and the Last Man. New York: Bard,

1998.
García Canclini, Néstor. "Remaking Passports. Visual Thoughts in the Debate

on Multiculturalism." The Visual Culture Reader. Ed. Nicholas Mirzoeff.

New York: Routledge, 2002. 130-41.
Gordon, Avery F. Ghostly Matters: Haunting and the Sociological Imagination.

Minneapolis: U of Minnesota Press, 1997.
Guattari, Félix y, Antonio Negri: Las verdades nómadas. Madrid: Akal

Ediciones, 1999.
Labanyi, Jo. "History and Hauntology; Or, What Does One Do with the

Ghosts of the Past? Reflections on Spanish Film and Fiction of the

Post-Franco Period." Disremembering the Dictatorship: The Politics of

Memory Sirice the Spanish Transition to Democracy. Ed. J.R. Resina.

Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2000. 65-82.
. Constructing Identity in Contemporary Spain. Theoretical Debates

and Cultural Practice. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2002.
Navajas, Gonzalo. "Posmodernidad, globalización, ficción: ¿Para qué seguir

contando historias inventadas en el Siglo XXI? Revista Monográfica/

Monographic Review XVII (2001): 22-35.

. Más allá de la posmodernidad. Barcelona: EUB, 1996.

Richardson, Nathan. Ed. Postmodern Paletos. Immigration, Democracy,

and Globalization in Spanish Narrative and Film, 1950-2000. London:

Bucknell UP, 2002.
. "Stereotypical Melancholy: Undoing Galician Identity in Suso de

Toro's Calzados Lola.''' Anales de la Literatura Española Contemporánea

26.2 (2001): 169-189.
Sloterdijk, Peter. Eurotaoísmo. Barcelona: Seix Barrai, 2001.
Toro, Suso de. Calzados Lola. Barcelona: Ediciones B, 1998.
Zizek, Slavoj. "The Matrix, or, the Two Sides of Perversión." www.Nettime.

org: 1999. http://amsterdam.nettime.org/Lists-Archives/nettime-l-9912/

msg00019.html
. The Fragile Absolute. New York: Verso, 2000.

Memory and Fantasy: The Imaginative
Reconstruction of a Lost Past in
Las cartas que no llegaron

Andrea Colvin

University of California, Irvine

Since the end of World War II "Holocaust litera ture" has generated an
intense debate regarding the relationship between historical reality and
its representation through fiction. One could even say that representa-
tion itself, when faced with the collective trauma of the Holocaust,
entered into a profound crisis. As philosophers and thinkers of all
kinds struggled to come to terms with the horrors endured by millions
in Nazi concentration camps, they began to question the possibilities
and limits of representation as well as the problems associated with
collective and individual memory. Adorno's well-known dictum, "To
write poetry after Auschwitz is barbarie" (34), often serves as a point
of departure for this discussion and has provoked different reactions
from many, ranging from those who reject any artistic approach to
the Holocaust to those who defend fiction as a possible means of
overcoming the limits of historical representation.

Although it does not necessarily fall within the category of
"Holocaust literature," the autobiographical novel Las cartas que
no llegaron (2000)' by Uruguayan playwright and novelist Mauricio
Rosencof can be read within the context of this debate. Rosencof is
the son of Jewish parents, who emigrated from Poland in the late
1920s hoping to improve their life in Uruguay. In the 1960s, Rosencof
became one of the leaders of the National Liberation Army (the so-
called "Tupamaros"), an urban guerilla group that was overthrown
by the Uruguayan army in 1972, leading to his arrest and subsequent
imprisonment during the military dictatorship (1973-1985). In Las
cartas que no llegaron^ Rosencof tells us the story of his life, in which
he confronts not only his memories of thirteen years of terror and
deprivation, but also an earlier traumatic episode in his family's life —
the disappearance of the relatives left behind in Poland, all of whom

38 MESTER, VOL. XXXVl (2007)

Memory and Fantasy 39

were exterminated in Nazi concentration camps. The text is by no
means a realistic or mimetic account of his life, but rather joins fact
and fiction in such a way that they become inseparable, creating a
poetic and imaginative work that enables us to rethink the relation-
ship between history, memory, and fiction. The prominent role given
to imagination and fantasy- in the novel suggests that facts do not
necessarily speak for themselves and that the use of imagination in
writing constitutes a way to possibly overeóme the difficulties associ-
ated with representing traumatic events.

Without a doubt, the Holocaust constituted the traumatic event
of the twentieth century, and it has frequently been described as an
"inexpressible experience" or an event "beyond words," given that
it brought forth a degree of evil and horror that was unimaginable
before the era of totalitarianism. When Adorno uttered the afore-
mentioned maxim "To write poetry after Auschwitz is barbarie,"
he alluded to this alleged "inexpressibility" which was understood
by some theorists and critics as a kind of prohibition against art in
general, suggesting that artistic representations of any event labeled
as "unspeakable" would somehow constitute an ethical violation.
Berel Lang,^ for example, chose to systematically reject the possibility
of artistic representations of the Holocaust, claiming that fiction is
deceitful and dangerous because it tends to "twist" historical truth:

Figurative discourse and the elaboration of figurative space
obtrudes the author's voice and a range of imaginative
turns and decisions on the literary subject, irrespective
of that subject's character and irrespective of — indeed
defying — the "facts" of that subject which might otherwise
have spoken for themselves and which, at the very least, do
not depend on the author's voice for their existence. (316,
emphasis added)

Lang's idea that facts "speak for themselves" has been severely criticized
by other critics and, as I will later argüe, is also rejected by Rosencof
whose novel makes a strong point with respect to the relationship
between facts and reality, stressing that factual evidence is often entirely
insufficient if one wants to comprehend a traumatic event. Likewise,
in his essay "Unspeakable," Thomas Tresize carefully examines Berel
Lang's idea of what constitutes an ethically acceptable representation

40 Andrea Colvin

of the Holocaust, concluding that his attitude is excessively restric-
tive. Tresize argües that by focusing "on the ethical flaws of figurative
discourse" Lang infers "the moral superiority of what he considers to
be non-figurative representations of the Holocaust" (47), creating the
impression that "the writer cannot be trusted to make an intelligent and
ethically discriminating cholee of figure or trope" (50).

One of the definitions of the term "unspeakable" that Tresize
offers in the introduction to his essay refers to that which "may not or
cannot be uttered or spoken" (39), either "because it lies outside the
profane world and its language" or "because speaking it would be a
profanation" (39). This seems to be the definition closest to Adorno's
original idea that writing poetry after the Holocaust is "barbarie."
Rather than making a prohibition against art, Adorno seems to sug-
gest that the concentration camp experience is one that eludes artistic
expression, either because there are no words to represent such evil
or because the attempt to do so would viólate an unwritten ethical
code. Since then, a number of theorists have tried to find new angles
from which to approach the problem of representation, trying to
escape the risk of making absolute claims or moral prescriptions by
shifting the focus from the question of whether to represent or what
can be represented to how it is possible to talk about events such as
the Holocaust within ethical and aesthetical bounds. Some have even
begun to criticize the notion of "unspeakability" altogether, pointing
out that by describing Auschwitz as "inexpressible" we may run the
risk of converting it into a "sublime" experience, giving it an almost
positive spin in the process. Giorgio Agamben, for example, though he
defines Auschwitz as a unique phenomenon with respect to its magni-
tude (31), rejects the notion of "inexpressibility," suggesting that such
a view risks bestowing an aura of mysticism on the extermination of
human lives: "Decir que Auschwitz es 'indecible' o 'incomprensible'
equivale a euphémeín, a adorarle en silencio, como se hace con un
dios; es decir, significa, a pesar de las intenciones que puedan tenerse,
contribuir a su gloria" (32).

By not offering the reader a strictly mimetic account of his Ufe
and instead emphasizing the artistic use of imagination, Rosencof's
novel provides one possible answer to the question of how trauma
can be represented through fictional writing. In this respect, his ideas
are closely related to those expressed by Geoffrey Hartman and Jorge
Semprún, two thinkers who share the view that fiction may be a

Memory and Fantasy 41

possible way out of the crisis of representation. Hartman, for example,
has argued that realistic representations often fail because they tend
to exceed our human capacity to comprehend and conceptuaHze
certain traumatic events (320). In "The Book of the Destruction," he
asks whether so-called unreaUstic ways of representing may provide a
better ahernative: "In every reaHstic depiction of the Shoah, the more
it tries to be a raw representation, the more the Why rises up Hke an
unsweet savor. We describe but cannot explain what happened. Could
'unreahstic' depictions, then, alleviate the disparity?" (321).

The same question is asked by Semprún in La escritura o la
vida where he argües that harshly reahstic representations of radi-
cal evil risk betraying reality itself by making it seem "unbelievable"
("demasiado increíble" [198]). Thus, for Semprún (as well as for
Rosencof) it is never enough to recount the facts. Instead, he insists
that the excess of evil which characterizes the concentration camp
experience can only be communicated "con un poco de artificio"
(141); in other words, by stimulating the audience's imagination and
putting reality into perspective in such a way that our mind becomes
open to the unimaginable (141). In order to accomplish such a task
without distorting historical truth, the artist, then, should ideally
"present without representing, [. . .] show without telling" (Carroll
76). Finally, while Hartman speaks of "limits of conceptualization"
(referring to our human (in)capacity to comprehend traumatic events),
Semprún stresses that there are also limits to our ability to empathize
with other people's suffering. The real issue for him is not "what
can be told" but rather how the experience of the Holocaust can be
narrated "while stimulating rather than crushing the sensitivity and
imagination of one's audience" (77).

This idea of "presenting without representing" put forth by
Semprún also lies at the heart of Rosencof's novel in which he aims
to relate the traumatic experiences that have shaped his life without
resorting to the use of uncompromising realism. When telling the
readers about his encounter with terror under the Uruguayan mili-
tary regime or about his relatives' experience in a Nazi concentration
camp, he opts for a blend of "real" and "imagined" memories, which
speak powerfully for the importance of imagination in artistic repre-
sentations of traumatic events.

Las cartas que no llegaron is divided into three parts, each of them
constitutes a different angle from which the author attempts to reclaim

42 Andrea Colvin

a lost past, first by returning to his childhood and employing the voice
and perspective of a young boy, and later through a reconstruction of
the imaginary conversations he has with his father while being in soH-
tary confinement. Throughout the text, writing and the use of fantasy
in particular play a privileged role, given that the narrative constitutes
an effort to reconstruct a rather "blurry" image of a past that is only
partially accessible through distant and fragmented memories. Fully
aware of his own lack of memories, the narrator pleads for more: "¿Y
por qué te escribo hoy todo esto, Vieio?"* No sé. Tal vez para decirte lo
que me acuerdo y, más que nada, decirte lo que me acuerdo para que
veas lo poco que sé, que quiero saber más, que quiero más memorias"
(Rosencof 69). Thus, faced with the insufficiency of his memories, the
use of his imagination becomes the only way to fill in the gaps and to
"make up" for the emptiness left behind by his relatives' disappearance
as well as the absence of human contact during his years in prison.

One must only look at the book's dedication in order to realize
that memory plays a special role in this text. Las cartas que no llega-
ron is dedicated to Rosencof's granddaughter, Inés, specifically to her
incipient memory, "tu naciente memoria" (7). Henee, the motivation
behind the text becomes clear: it is meant to ensure that the family
history will not be lost, that memory will be preserved, not simply
because remembering those who suffered is an obligation (which is a
declaration quite common in Holocaust literature), but also because
sharing our family's memories strengthens our sense of who we are.
In fact, the cali for "more memories" in the citation above (69) and
the attempt to reconstruct a lost history can be interpreted as essential
steps in a search for identity which, according to Rosencof, is always
rooted in our family's past.

In the first part of the novel, entitled "Días de barrio y guerra,"
the narrator recounts his childhood memories, among which daily
life in his parents' house and the Sunday ritual of reading letters from
Poland figure most prominently. As the title of the novel indicates, the
letters possess a special significance, mainly because one day they stop
coming, creating a void that haunts the Rosencof family for years. The
most important aspect of the first part of the book is that the narrator,
rather than looking back and commenting on the events as an adult,
takes on the voice and perspective of a child, a procedure that can
also be found in some examples of Holocaust literature (i.e., Binjamin
Wilkomirski's Fragments: Memories of a Childhood, 1939-1948 or

Memory and Fantasy 43

The Painted Bird by Jerzy Kosinski). In her book Trauma Fiction,
Anne Whitehead analyzes Wiikomirski's novel, where a child's point
of view is used in order to nárrate his experience during World War II.
Whitehead focuses her attention on the effects that this technique has
on the reader, pointing out that "the limited insight of the child creates
a hiatus in the text, which relies on the knowledge or imagination of
the reader to fill in the gap and make sense of the narrative" (38).

Rosencof's novel certainly challenges the reader to take on such
an active role in order to reconstruct the meaning behind the innocent
and nai've voice of the child. Andrea Reiter, another critic interested in
the use of the child's perspective in literature dealing with traumatic
experiences, suggests that the impact on the reader is especially power-
ful because the child's outlook tends to change our view on things we
thought we understood: "It is the gaze of the child that allows us to
see in a new way that which we already know" (84). In addition, the
child's lack of experience often grants his/her observations a singular
clarity: "In their unprejudiced and uninformed attitude, children not
only notice details which escape the adult but interpret them in a
way which makes them seem even more horrific" (85). Later in the
same essay, Reiter points to the problems associated with memory,
specifically early childhood memories which tend to be extremely
fragmented and full of gaps (86),

The same problem is evident in Rosencof's text from the very first
page. In part one the narrator begins his story by saying: "No puedo
precisar con exactitud qué día conocí a mis padres" and then immedi-
ately adds: "Pero recuerdo — eso sí — que cuando vi a mamá por primera
vez, mamá estaba en el patio" (11). Thus, the tensión between remem-
bering and not remembering, knowing and not knowing, is underlined
from the start, and this same ambiguity accompanies the text until the
very end. By pointing out rather than covering up his insecurity with
respect to the accuracy of his memories, the author directs our atten-
tion toward the problematic nature of memory, giving more importance
to the act of remembering itself than the accuracy of the facts. In this
fashion, Rosencof emphasizes that the past can never be recovered "as
it was" and that retelling it means converting it into fiction.

The French historian Fierra Nora' was also concerned with how
past events are retold, and in his famous work Les lieux de mémoire
he differentiates memory from history, pointing out that, unlike his-
tory which is linear and focused on the "progressions and relations

44 Andrea Coluin

between things," memory "takes root in the concrete, in spaces, ges-
tures, images, and objects" (9). If we accept this distinction and carry
it over to Rosencof's text, we can see that the author's aim is not to
offer a precisely reconstructed and linear versión of his past (in other
words, of history) but rather to créate a kind of archive of memories,
how^ever simple or fragmented these may be. Indeed, what we find
in "Días de barrio y guerra" is a multitude of recollections that are
based on concrete objects, such as the radio that brought news from
the war, the shoebox in which his mother kept the famiiy pictures or
the streetcar that used to pass by the house. The young boy's com-
mentaries on these objects range from the most naive and infantile to
those that provide a glimpse of how much even a child can be aware
of the anxiety reigning in his famiiy, which can be seen in his remark
about the tram, "los tranvías son una cosa espantosa porque se llevan
a la gente y no se sabe dónde" (19).

In addition to the already mentioned objects, the parents' house
also occupies a privileged space within the narrator's recollections.
According to Nathan Wachtel's essay, "Remember and Never Forget,"
the home is often given an important role in Holocaust testimonies,
where it represents a kind of lost paradise: "In the beginning was a
familiar place: a home, a refuge, warm affectionate surroundings.
This original space appears in memory as the ideal of all happiness; it
is recalled with longing" (112). Though this may be true to a certain
extent in Rosencof's novel (for example, the mother is lovingly associ-
ated with the patio, and the narrator recalls with nostalgia the times
in which the whole famiiy would gather around the kitchen table), the
feeling of happiness and unity is overshadowed by the never-ending
wait for letters that never came.

In the absence of letters or any written proof of what in fact
happened, fantasy takes over, substituting for "reality" and filling
the silence with the voices of those who iacked the chance to teli
their story. In Las cartas que no llegaron, Rosencof invents letters to
take the place of those that never came, imagining what might have
happened, beginning with the arrival of the Gestapo in the relatives'
village to the deportation to Treblinka, a Nazi concentration camp,
even imagining a kind of rebellion led by the prisoners in the camp.
Through these unsigned letters, inserted into the text in such a way
that the distinction between reality and fantasy becomes blurred,
Rosencof insists on the valué of imagination, especially in the face of

Memory and Fantasy 45

evil. Thus, one of the letters states: "Porque la fantasía, ¿sabes?, es la
única cualidad humana que no está sujeta a las miserias de la realidad.
Como las cenizas, ¿comprendes? Porque han comenzado a acumularse
grandes cantidades de cenizas" (43).

I shall briefly discuss the use of the word "cenizas" ("ashes"),
in order to underline its suggestive power. There is no doubt that
Rosencof chooses this word carefuUy with the intention of stimulat-
ing the reader's imagination and evoking (disturbing) images in our
mind without having to describe anything directly. Used as a type of
synecdoche, the word cenizas alludes to the horrors of the concentra-
tion camp without explicitly talking about them. Choosing this type of
figurative speech constitutes not only an aesthetic but also an ethical
decisión, which places the text once again within the debate about the
"inexpressibility" of the Holocaust and provides a suggestion as to
how the difficulties of representation can be overeóme.

Turning now to the second part of the book, entitled "La carta,"
we find a temporal leap in the storyline, bringing us face to face with
a young man, trapped in a prison cell and desperate for human con-
tact. As in the first part of the book, the reader is forced to take on
an active role and use his/her imagination in order to fill in the gaps
in the story. For example, the narrator never speaks directly of the
fact that he is in prison, mentioning neither the word dictatorship
ñor torture, and yet, the reader is able to infer all of these things from
the relatively few allusions made in the text, especially descriptions
of a space where neither light ñor water ñor anything else necessary
to ensure the survival of human life may enter: "pero mi mundo es
este, de dos metros por uno, sin luz sin libro sin un rostro sin sol sin
agua sin sin" (72). The entire prison experience is summarized quite
effectively through the repetition of the word sin, suggesting that the
experience of solitary confinement is primarily characterized by the
absence of things or beings that make life worth living. Faced with
loneliness, endless days, and the complete lack of human interac-
tion, the imaginary conversations with his father, which the narrator
reconstructs in this part of the book, become not only a way to pass
the time but also a seemingly necessary task for survival. They are
marked by two central themes: an obsession with his family's past and
its connection to the narrator's own identity.

Throughout this section of the novel, Mauricio continually
"converses" with his father about the past, trying on the one hand to

46 Andrea Colvin

imagine his parents' iife in Poland before their emigration and on the
other hand to reconstruct an obviously crucial moment in his child-
hood: The day "the letter" arrived, a document presumably containing
notification of the relatives' death, though its content is never actually
revealed to us. The narrative returns to this moment again and again,
implying that the arrival of this letter constituted a turning point in
the Iife of the Rosencof family, stealing their last hope with respect to
their relatives' survival. The silence surrounding this only "real" letter
in the novel forms a stark contrast with the imagined letters of part
one, emphasizing once more the role of imagination in the novel as
well as the author's determination not to tell that which may exceed
the reader's limits of conceptualization and empathy.

In order to fully understand the obsession with an inaccessible
past I will establish a connection between the narrator's attempt to
reconstruct the past through memory and to establish an identity that
is rooted in family history. As I carefuUy examine the text it is possible
to see that Mauricio appears to have gone through a twofold identity
crisis in his Iife. First of all, it is evident that Mauricio has always felt
distanced from the rest of his family. Being the only member of the
family to be born in Uruguay, he does not share the same attachment to
Poland, for example. In addition, he is more comfortable with Spanish
than Yiddish (69) and prefers the Tango o ver traditional Jewish songs
(60). The split in identity is emphasized through the use of two different
ñames: Moishe, the Jewish ñame he associates with his childhood, and
Mauricio, his preferred choice as an adult. The sense of estrangement
becomes stronger after the death of his older brother, whom he adored
and who served as a kind of "bridge" between Mauricio's world and
that of his parents. In response to the loss of her first-born son, their
mother distances herself emotionally from Mauricio, producing feelings
of inferiority, guilt and separation at the same time.

The second aspect of the crisis has to do with the narrator's
experience in prison and points to the idea that an encounter with
radical evil tends to threaten even the very core of humanity — our
identity. The gravity of the situation becomes apparent when Mauricio
describes the fírst time his father was allowed to visit him after his
arrest, an especially memorable moment because his father does not
recognize him: "el teniente dijo 'acá está su hijo, tiene diez minutos,'
y vos me miraste y lo miraste y dijiste 'él no es mi hijo, ¿dónde está
mi hijo?'" (63).

Memory and Fantasy 47

This double identity crisis, then, can be seen as the reason why
Mauricio goes in search of his family's roots; it is a quest that will
later lead him to Poland in order to explore his origins and to visit the
concentration camp in which his relatives died. His fixation with the
past impHes hope — the desire to find his own lost identity through the
act of remembering and coming to know his family history. However,
his trip to Trebhnka leads him to a conclusión that may surprise us:
The camp, which has been converted into a museum, does not bring
him any closer to his lost relatives. It seems that the public act of
commemoration fails:

'Aquí sí', me dije, 'en esta guía encontraré mi nombre,' y
afirmé los pies en la tierra maldita bendecida por tantos que
la anduvieron, y entré a mirar y leer me-ti-cu-lo-sa-men-te
valija por valija, esas donde guardaron brochas, blusas y
sandalias 1- . .] y te lo juro, Viejo, las miré una por una, una
por una, y nada, allí no estaban, allí no estábamos, ni en
esa guía, mi viejo, estábamos vos y yo. (110-111)

Mauricio's experience in the museum brings to mind James
Young's work on the problem of memorializing the Holocaust. As
Anne Whitehead points out, Young has been able to show that "the
gathering of fragments is central to the process of Holocaust memo-
rialisation, particularly in Poland" (60). According to Whitehead,
Young recognizes a fascination with and even fetishisation of the
remaining objects and indicates that Holocaust museums tend to dis-
play them as if "the debris of history" could serve as "an encounter
with history itself" (52). The problem is that the object's power or
ability to signal beyond itself is gravely overestimated:

For, by themselves, these remnants rise in a macabre dance
of memorial ghosts. Armless sieeves, eyeless lenses, head-
less caps, footless shoes: victims are known only by their
absence, by the moment of their destruction. [. . .] For
when the memory of a people and its past are reduced to
the bits and rags of their belongings, memory of life itself
is lost. (Young 132)

48 Andrea Colvin

For Mauricio, this means that the only thing that can (re)connect
him with his past (and help him find himself) are his own personal
memories of which he desperately wants more, recognizing their
insufficiency and pleading with his father for more knowledge about
the past. In the process of searching for family ties, he comes to yet
another unforeseen conclusión — the realization that it is his own
encounter with terror that helps him identify with his parents' suf-
fering and thus brings him closer to them. This new awareness is
apparent in the foUowing paragraph where Mauricio remembers his
thoughts the moment in which the fateful letter arrived:

Y yo estaba ahí, papá, y no estaba. No estaba ni en tus ojos
ni en los de mamá. No estaba cuando hablaban en yiddish,
bajito, intenso, rápido, entrecortado; no estaba. Era algo
que estaba ahí, aislado por ondas de una intensidad que no
me llegaban, estaba del lado de afuera, papá, ahí pasaba
algo y yo no estaba y estaba ahí. Ahora sí. Ahora sí, papá.
Estoy ahí. (82, emphasis added)

This discovery leads us to the third part of the novel, "Días sin
tiempo," in which the boundaries between reality and imagination
begin to dissolve completely as we read about a fantastic reunión
between the narrator and his father. The chapter begins with the
mention of a mysterious word, uttered by his father in an unknown
language, "un idioma insólito, inexistente, alguna lengua muerta"
(117), which Mauricio receives through what appears to have been a
dream. Though it is never actually pronounced in the text, this word
forms the very center of the story, a focal point to which the narrator
returns again and again. Admitting that he does not know how to
pronounce it, Mauricio nevertheless understands the word's meaning
and feels that, for the first time, he and his father share a common lan-
guage, a language belonging to those who disappeared from this earth
long ago. The utterance of this word can be seen as a new beginning:
As it is passed down from father to son it renews the bond between
them and constitutes at the same time an act of resistance by establish-
ing communication in a place where human contact is not allowed, a
place of absolute silence: "En este territorio reina el silencio, infinito,
tanto que cuando se apagan las voces exteriores [. . .] uno acá, atento,
puede percibir la actividad ruidosa de las arañas" (122).

Memory and Fantasy 49

These are in fact the two main ideas of "Días sin tiempo:" On
the one hand there is an emphasis on the need for human commu-
nication, particularly under inhumane circumstances, and on the
other hand, an affirmation that resistance is made possible through
communication and fantasy. The passing down of an enigmatic word
from father to son, an expression that only the two of them can
understand, can certainly be seen as a form of resistance, especially
in a place where words are strictly prohibited: "[. . .] hablar, lo que
se dice hablar, con nadie, eso de 'buen día,' 'cómo anda,' 'qué hay de
Nuevo,' nada. Las palabras estaban herméticamente prohibidas, para
siempre" (162-163). It is not a coincidence, then, that the other two
occurrences in which the word is spoken are also moments of defi-
ance. In the first example, Mauricio mutters the word while a soldier
is pointing a gun at his head (131), and the second time he secretly
communicates it to the prisoner in the neighboring cell, using a type
of Morse code that they invented. This second instance is where, with-
out stating the word, its meaning is finally revealed to us. It means:
"Moishe, qué haces ahí parado, sentare, come" (165). In other words,
the mysterious "palabra" is a welcoming gesture, an invitation to
share the food and closeness in the family's home (Lespada 100). It
is an ordinary gesture made under extraordinary circumstances, and
herein lies its significance. Mauricio is comforted knowing that, even
though the word might never again be spoken, its existence contin-
ues (165), overcoming the barriers put up to prevent human contact
and communication. It is possible to see the act of writing this very
novel as an extensión of the word, a victory of communication over
silence, as well as a continuation of the family ties, even as father and
son have become separated by death: "Todo esto es muy loco. Viejo.
Porque fíjate que hoy, para poder contarte lo que te cuento, a vos, que
ya no estás o que estás donde esto no me lo oís o tal vez sí, tengo que
contarte lo que se ha dado en llamar el entorno, mira bien, 'entorno,'
donde fue oída, por mí, la Palabra" (161).

For Mauricio the word is a messenger of hope and courage, a way
to experience intimacy in the midst of suffering and human depriva-
tion. The novel, thus, ends on a positive note, affirming that love
and communication cannot be eliminated, no matter what externai
limitations are imposed on them. Rosencof indicates that in a world
of wars and terror, humanity manages to preserve itself through
memory and through "the word," in this case by writing letters that

50 Andrea Colvin

were never sent: his relatives' and his own. Mauricio finally realizes
that even defeat can be turned into victory if one has the courage to
tell liis story: "Fuerza, mi Viejo. Cuando uno cuenta los naufragios es
porque no se ahogó" (145).

The author's decisión to include photos at the end of the novel,
alongside epigraphs from the text, stresses once more the complex
relationship between memory and testimony, reality and fiction. It
is clear that the photos no longer form part of an exterior "reality"
outside of the text but rather constitute an integral part of a novel
seeking to stress its ow^n fictitious quality by intertwining "real" and
"imagined" events. For Rosencof, our ability to use our imagination
serves not only as a way to overeóme the limits of our memory, it also
becomes a means of survival in times of intolerable solitude, and it can
be used as an act of resistance against totalitarian regimes that strive
to eliminate any form of human communication.

In conclusión, Las cartas que no llegaron can be seen as a text
that provides a response to the crisis of representation and the strained
relationship between historical reality and fiction. It presents an alter-
native to strictly mimetic accounts of personal (or collective) trauma
by foregrounding the possibilities of fiction and demonstrating that
stimulating the reader's imagination (for example, through the use of
the child's voice or fantastic encounters) can be as effective, and per-
haps even more powerful than offering realistic depictions of torture
and suffering. If Rosencof were to debate Berel Lang, he surely would
not only reject the idea that "facts can speak for themselves," but also
question whether "reality" is about facts at all. His novel suggests that
writing a personal history has little to do with reporting "what hap-
pened" and much to do with imagining and reconstructing that which
is unknown, and which belongs to the realm of hope and fantasy.
Rosencof shows that memories, though fragmented and insufficient,
are the key to understanding one's past and one's identity, and that,
paradoxically, our imagination can be a powerful tool in the struggle
to cope with an unimaginably cruel reality. So, if he were asked to
respond to Adorno's dictum, Rosencof might just suggest that "after
Auschwitz, the use of fantasy has become absolutely indispensable."

Memory and Fantasy 51

Notes

1. The novel was written and published many years after Uruguay's
transition to democracy in the mid 1980s.

2. The use of the word "fantasy" may be seen as problematic since it
is a term which generates a wide range of interpretations and is used in a
variety of fields, including psychoanalysis, literature, and film. However, in
this article the words "imagination" and "fantasy" are used interchangeably
to refer to things or events which are not based on concrete reality but which
exist only in the narrator's imagination. His fantasies help him cope with the
absence of human contact as well as his limited memories.

3. Berel Lang is a philosopher who has written numerous works on the
interpretation of the Holocaust, including Writing and the Holocaust, Post-
Holocaust: Interpretation^ Misinterpretation, and the Claims ofHistory, and
Holocaust Representation: Art Within the Limits of History and Ethics.

4. Use of the appellative "Viejo" is not a rare occurrence in countries
such as Argentina or Uruguay where young people use it to refer to or address
their father. In general, the word does not have a negative connotation.

5. Nora's Lieux de mémoire is a múltiple volume coUaborative project
consisting of 132 articles published between 1981 and 1992, a shorter versión
of which was later translated into English as Realms o f Memory. He coined
the term "sites of memory" which has become widely used in the field of
memory studies. Nora's goal was to study the construction of the French
past in a manner more appropriate to the postmodern climate of the 1980s,
not by focusing only on historically important events and their causes and
effects (which is commonly done in linear historical narratives), but rather
by turning his attention to what he regards as the most outstanding (physical
and symbolical) sites of the French past. These include such divergent entities
as museums and monuments, dictionaries, people, and battles.

Works Cited

Adorno, Theodor W. Prisms. Trans. Samuel and Shierry Weber. Cambridge,

MA:MIT Press, 1981.
Agamben, Giorgio. Lo que queda de Auschwitz: El archivo y el testigo. Trans.

Antonio Gimeno Cuspinera. Valencia: Pre-Textos, 2002.
Carroll, David. "The Limits of Representation and the Right to Fiction:

Shame, Literature, and the Memory of the Shoah." L'Esprit Créateur

39.4 (1999): 68-79.

52 Andrea Colvin

Hartman, Geoffrey H. "The Book of the Destruction." Prohing the Limits of

Representation: Nazism and the ''Final Solution.'" Ed. Saúl Friedlander.

Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1992. 318-334.
Lang, Berel. "The Representation of Limits." Probing the Limits of Represen-
tation: Nazism and the "Final Solution.'' Ed. Saúl Friedlander. Cambridge,

MA: Harvard UP, 1992. 300-317.
Lespada, Gustavo. "Las manifestaciones del silencio, lo inefable en Las cartas

que no llegaron de Mauricio Rosencof." Everha 2003. 97-103. 8 June

2006 <http: //www.everba.com/everba2002-3.pdf>.
Nora, Pierre. "Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Mémoire."

Representations 26 (1989): 7-24.
Reiter, Andrea. "The Holocaust as Seen Through the Eyes of Children." The

Holocaust and the Text. Ed. Andrew Leak and George Paizis. New York:

St. Martin's Press, 2000. 83-96.
Rosencof, Mauricio. Las cartas que no llegaron. Montevideo, Uruguay:

Ediciones Santillana, 2000.
Semprún, Jorge. La escritura o la vida. Trans. Thomas Kauf. Barcelona:

Tusquets Editores, 2002.
Trezise, Thomas. "Unspeakable." The Yale Journal of Criticism 14.1 (2001):

39-66.
Wachtel, Nathan. "Remember and Never Forget." Between Memory and

History. Ed. Marie- Noelle Bourget, Lúcete Valensi, and Nathan Wachtel.

New York: Harwood Academic Publishers, 1990.
Whitehead, Anne. Trauma Fiction. Edinburgh: Edinburgh UP, 2004.
Young, James E. The Texture of Memory: Holocaust Memoriais and Their

Meaning. New Haven, CT: Yale UP, 1993.

"El chuchumbé te he de soplar:" sobre
obscenidad, censura y memoria oral en el
primer "son de la tierra" novohispano

Elena Deanda Camacho
Vanderbilt University

La primera virtud de los censores es su obsesión. Los más
grandes perseguidores de la literatura erótica, política o anti-
clerical siempre han desarrollado un gusto muy particular por
el establecimiento de listas.

Emmanuel Pierrot
Le bonheur de vivre eyt enfer^

La paradoja del censor es que documenta con tan minucioso cuidado el
objeto de su repulsión que lo salvaguarda en el tiempo. La Inquisición
novohispana condenó las canciones populares en el siglo dieciocho en
aras de su obscenidad pero gracias a una sistemática persecución capturó
en el texto lo fugitivo de la oralidad y les permitió a las generaciones
venideras conocer aquello que no debía conocerse. En los archivos
inquisitoriales la lírica popular perseguida se encuentra ensamblada en
un complejo textual en donde documentos jurídicos y administrativos
(denuncias y testimonios, edictos y circulares) se entretejen y gravitan
alrededor de breves cancioncillas llamadas sones de la tierra.-

En este complejo textual es necesario evidenciar la mediatización
del discurso legal en el cual el individuo (funcionario, denunciante
o testigo) ha impuesto a priori un juicio de valor. Simultáneamente
es preciso destacar la naturaleza performativa del objeto e intentar
reconstruir las situaciones sociales, políticas o culturales en las cuales
se generó y desarrolló. Richard Bauman considera necesaria la contex-
tualización de la performatividad en el análisis del texto folclórico ya
que "los materiales de la literatura oral no son sino el registro parcial
de un comportamiento humano profundamente situado" (2). El aná-
lisis contextual provee así una puerta de acceso a la convergencia de
artista, audiencia y escenario.

MESTER, VOL. XXXVl (2007) 53

54 Elena Deanda Camacho

Al establecer el vínculo entre las coplas y la comunidad de donde
proceden me propongo visitar el lugar en el cual obscenos y obscenas
adquieren su importancia tanto en los textos que los refieren como
en el contexto que habitan. Esto con el fin de verificar si en la perse-
cución de la obscenidad el censor no persiguió la representación sino
al obsceno — o la obscena — como fuente de tal representación. Entre
las muchas lecturas que puede recibir el conjunto textual de la lírica
perseguida novohispana,^ mi aproximación intenta demostrar que
no son los versos o los bailes sino los individuos y sus acciones los
verdaderos objetivos de la Inquisición.

La obscenidad existió en el terreno de los signos pero el castigo se
aplicó a individuos reales pertenecientes a castas específicas y al bajo
estrato social. Si el Santo Oficio persiguió la lírica popular con tanto
ahínco fue por ser símbolo de una acción que sucedía en el terreno
de lo real; si buscó silenciar la música fue por no poder suprimir la
intrusión de la "plebe" en el espacio social novohispano. Y aunque
pudo someter a los individuos con la prohibición no acertó a ganar
la guerra. La censura fue incitadora y el escándalo que generaron
los numerosos procesos inquisitoriales en contra de los "sones de
la tierra" hizo que la "plebe" instaurara bajo nuevas máscaras su
expresividad estética.

Anteriores a los sones del siglo dieciocho hay musicalidades
indígenas y africanas en la Nueva España. La música indígena fue
permitida, regulada y patrocinada por las autoridades eclesiásticas.''
En 1528 Pedro de Gante permitió las fiestas indígenas en el recinto
religioso y abrió el camino a la tarea evangelizadora ya que esto faci-
litaba que los pueblos aceptaran la nueva religión.' Las comunidades
africanas, por su lado, tuvieron más problemas para expresarse en
público.^ Mientras que las festividades indígenas fueron, casi total-
mente, absorbidas por el calendario religioso, las danzas africanas
mantuvieron su secularización atrayendo mayor escándalo. El control
y el desacato se alternaban, paralelos a la proclamación de edictos
prohibitivos se creaban nuevos géneros musicales como los cumbés,
paracumbés, zarambeques y zamacuecas.^

En el siglo diecisiete surgió una lírica en lengua española en el
estilo de contrafacta, esto es, con base en un texto o música reli-
giosa. En esta vena se elaboraron versiones obscenas de los Diez
Mandamientos (1604) o del Padre Nuestro (1614); versos que, no
obstante, parecen ser efecto del quehacer poético clerical.^ Será hasta

'El chuchumbé te he de soplar" 55

finales del siglo dieciocho que surja una lírica de manufactura popu-
lar, anónima y secular que no se base en ningún antecedente musical
o textual religioso y que relate accidentes de la vida cotidiana de
los estratos sociales más bajos de la población. Este tipo de lírica,
además, une las influencias estéticas de las tres razas de la Nueva
España: la voluptuosidad de las danzas africanas, los instrumentos,
la musicalidad y la base lírica española, así como nahuatlismos y
sonoridades indígenas.

Esta lírica nació bajo el sino de la persecución. María Águeda
Méndez en Amores prohibidos: la palabra condenada en el México
de los virreyes reconoce cuarenta y tres sones, entre los cuales,
diez parecen haber sido los más perseguidos por la Inquisición:
el "Chuchumbé" (1766), el "Animal" (1767), el "Pan de man-
teca" (1769), la "Cosecha" (1772), el "Pan de jarabe" (1772), el
"Sacamandú" (1778), las "Seguidillas" (1784), el "Jarabe gatuno"
(1801), el "Torito" (1803) y el "Vals" (1808). No en todas las denun-
cias hay una trascripción de los sones. El "Chuchumbé" entre todos
destaca por ser el primer son prohibido por el Santo Oficio a todo
lo largo y ancho de la Nueva España, contando con un conjunto de
treinta y nueve coplas y cinco denuncias de 1766 a 1772.*^

La palabra "chuchumbé," de acuerdo con Humberto Aguirre
Tinoco, deriva de la raíz africana "cumbé" que significa ombligo y
que dio origen a géneros musicales afromestizos como el paracumbé,
el merecumbé y la cumbia (9). En las coplas de 1766 el término parece
haber experimentado un deslizamiento semántico y por contigüidad lo
que era "ombligo" significó "pene" como atestigua la primera copla:
"En la esquina está parado / un fraile de la Merced, / con los hábitos
alzados / enseñando el chuchumbé" (294). ^'^ La imagen de un fraile
semidesnudo mostrando su pene en público es ridicula y humorística.
El clérigo es un exhibicionista y su acción va en contra de la moral
católica que su hábito representa. El estribillo, por su parte, dice:
"Que te pongas bien, / que te pongas mal, / el chuchumbé te he de
soplar," expresando así la amenaza de una fellatio bien de buena o
mala manera (294).

Es el "chuchumbé" de un fraile la imagen introductoria del primer
son en la Nueva España. Ese fraile es, además, mercedario por lo
que no es fortuito que otro mercedario, el fraile Nicolás Montero,
sea el primero en denunciarlo en el puerto de Veracruz el 20 de
agosto de 1766, "lastimado del grave daño que causa en esta ciudad

56 Elena Deanda Camacho

particularmente entre las ahora doncellas" por lo que suplica que "por
vía de excomunión se publique edicto prohibitivo 1. . .] recogiendo los
muchos versos que se han escrito" (292)."

El fraile advierte el daño que la diseminación del "Chuchumbé"
puede tener en las "ahora doncellas" ya que el son (y el "chuchumbé"
mismo) amenazaba la conciencia (y el cuerpo) de las mujeres. La
denuncia tiene efecto: el 26 de agosto los inquisidores piden al fraile
"que remita las coplas del 'Chuchumbé' y desde qué tiempo se ha
introducido" (292v). Él no contesta pero el comisario de Veracruz,
Francisco Contreras, informa que "he sabido se practica entre gente
vulgar y marineros" (293). El 16 de septiembre los inquisidores le
piden que explique "en qué términos y con qué modales se practi-
can los bailes que dicen del 'Chuchumbé' que sean contrarios a la
modestia y buen ejemplo" (293). A lo que él contesta en carta del 23
de septiembre con el envío de las treinta y nueve coplas y una breve
descripción del baile: "con movimientos y palabras deshonestas y
provocativas" (296).

Esta descripción, sin embargo, no basta para formular el caso y
por ello los inquisidores piden de nueva cuenta un informe detallando
los "términos y modales" del son, informe que llega finalmente el 1 de
octubre describiendo que el baile se realiza "bailando cuatro mujeres
con cuatro hombres [. . .] con ademanes, meneos, zarándeos 1. . .]
manoseos de tramo en tramo, abrazos y dar barriga con barriga [. . .]
[y] esto se baila en casas ordinarias de mulatas y gente de color que-
brado 1- . .] soldados, marineros y broza" (298). El comisario enfatiza
el hecho de "mezclarse en él manoseos" y los danzantes "dar barriga
con barriga." Según su versión, la performance expone la dinámica
instintiva de los placeres carnales y despierta una intolerable inquie-
tud sobre la proximidad del cuerpo, en especial de sus partes bajas.
Además de la danza, el comisario señala el lugar en donde se realiza,
a saber, casas de "mulatas y gente de color quebrado [. . .] soldados,
marineros y broza" (298).

Mikhail Bakhtin advierte que al representar la parte baja del
cuerpo la cultura popular elabora una reflexión sobre la muerte y la
renovación; sobre la muerte con los intestinos, sobre la renovación con
los órganos genitales (21). La exhibición pública del órgano sexual
de un fraile en las coplas y las danzas "barriga con barriga" que las
acompañan se burla de y celebra la parte baja del cuerpo. La copla
revela una potencial generación de vida bajo el estéril hábito de un

'El chuchumbé te he de soplar" 57

fraile y la danza exhibe una instintiva proximidad entre hombres y
mujeres que conduciría al acto sexual y a la procreación. Ambas imá-
genes (una poética, la otra performativa) manifiestan la muerte y la
renovación del sistema religioso católico en cuanto a sus valoraciones
del dogma del celibato y del ejercicio de la sexualidad.

La irreverencia de las coplas, la descripción de la obscenidad en
la performance y la alusión indirecta al burdel conducen a los inqui-
sidores el 27 de octubre a prohibir el "Chuchumbé" y apoderarse de
sus versos al mandar que "traigáis y exhibáis ante nosotros [. . .] las
citadas coplas [. . .] so pena de excomunión mayor late sententiae y
de otras penas [. . .] en las cuales incurran los que [. . .] las retuvie-
ren [. . .] o las leyeren o abusaren de ellas con su repetición y canto"
(140).'- Prohibiendo el "Chuchumbé" la Inquisición no prohibe úni-
camente los versos y el baile sino el lugar de su ocurrencia, la fiesta
que congrega a las clases mestizas, quienes por no ser ni indígenas ni
africanas se sitúan en un punto difícil de adscripción administrativa.
El "Chuchumbé" que cantan es obsceno en sus versos, seductor en sus
bailes, expresa las pasiones más elementales del ser humano, incita al
coreo o la danza y permite a una colectividad económica y socialmente
reprimida liberarse momentáneamente de las restricciones de la iglesia
y el imperio en lo efímero de la performance.

Al contrastar los personajes que aparecen en los versos del
"Chuchumbé" y las personas reales de las denuncias se evidencia una
reiteración de personajes, a saber, de soldados "de color quebrado,"
de mujeres de moral "relajada" y de frailes exhibicionistas. Los solda-
dos son los "pardos" de la costa del Golfo de México quienes por su
movilidad geográfica invadieron las principales villas novohispanas.
Las mujeres, aquellas cuyas prácticas sexuales las trasladaron del
ámbito privado al público. Y los frailes, quienes "violaban" el recinto
sagrado teniendo sexo en el confesionario. La imagen del fraile obs-
ceno del "Chuchumbé" expuso los escándalos de la solicitación sexual
de sus hijas de confesión, una imagen tan real y tan grotesca que la
Inquisición debió suprimir por convulsionar el dogma del celibato y
el voto de castidad.

En el caso del "Chuchumbé" la Inquisición no sólo buscó prohibir
la expresividad estética de los grupos mestizos, también silenciar los
escándalos sexuales de los frailes. Al exhibir el "chuchumbé" clerical
el bajo estrato social se burló de y celebró la sexualidad tanto de los
frailes como de la "plebe." La obscenidad de su lírica se constituyó en

58 Elena Denuda Camacho

un mecanismo de defensa y transformó el espacio festivo en un espacio
simbólico de resistencia a las políticas institucionales, desestabilizando
en el centro de la fiesta popular el poder que tenían la religión y el
virrey sobre el cuerpo de sus gobernados.

Soldados. En la vida cotidiana de la Nueva España las prácticas
sexuales fuera de la institución del matrimonio se clasificaban auto-
máticamente en el rubro de delito sexual. La "mera fornicación,"
sin embargo, ha sido un término problemático porque en el dogma
católico no es un pecado capital sino venial, es decir, no afecta la
relación entre el creyente y Dios pero sí la debilita, ya que a través
de la práctica de pecados veniales el creyente es más vulnerable a
cometer los mortales. La "mera fornicación" en una sociedad como
la novohispana era, sin embargo, rutinaria, en especial en la vida de
los soldados cuya movilidad geográfica los hacía formar un sinnúmero
de familias informales.

Los soldados que aparecen en la denuncia del "Chuchumbé"
son afromestizos^^ ("de color quebrado") y en el sistema de castas
"pardos" que resultaron de la mezcla racial entre indígenas, esclavos
libertos o cimarrones, y en menor grado, poblaciones españolas y
criollas. ''' En la costa del Golfo de México los pardos habían traba-
jado principalmente como arrieros de ganado pero desde 1683, con el
ataque del pirata Lorencillo, una gran parte se trasladó al puerto de
Veracruz para servir en la milicia. ^^ En las coplas del "Chuchumbé"
las "voces" de sus mujeres hacen referencia a esta movilidad: "Me casé
con un soldado, / lo hicieron cabo de escuadra / y todas las noches
quiere, / su merced, montar la guardia" o "Mi marido se fue al puerto
/ por hacer burla de mí, / él de fuerza ha de volver / por lo que dejó
aquí" (294). En estas coplas es posible encontrar algunos de los trazos
que caracterizarían al soldado pardo de la costa del Golfo, a saber, la
movilidad social ("lo hicieron cabo de escuadra") y geográfica ("se fue
al puerto") pero, sobre todo, el ejercicio rampante de su sexualidad
(en el eufemismo "y todas las noches quiere, / su merced montar la
guardia" o "él de fuerza ha de volver / por lo que dejó aquí").

El "Chuchumbé" no sólo retrata las relaciones sexuales entre las
mujeres y los soldados, también aquellas entre las mujeres y los clérigos,
como ilustra la siguiente copla que, aunque no explicita la "voz" del sol-
dado, podría serle atribuida: "¿Qué te puede dar un fraile / por mucho
amor que te tenga? / Un polvito de tabaco / y un responso cuando
mueras" (294v). La "voz" de la copla desacredita la conveniencia de

'El chuchumbé te he de soplar" 59

"tratar" con frailes dado su estatismo en la escala social. El soldado,
por el contrario, podía ser ascendido y obtener mejorías económicas. De
acuerdo con la denuncia, los soldados cantan unas coplas que hablaban
sobre el "chuchumbé" de los frailes y las coplas muestran que no sólo
las cantan sino que disputan con ellos — en el interior de las mismas —
la posesión de las mujeres. En dos estribillos se hace explícita la "voz"
del soldado. El primero dice: "Vente conmigo, / vente conmigo, / que
soy soldado de los amarillos" (294v). El segundo: "Sabe vuesa merced
que, / sabe vuesa merced que, / que me meto a gringo y me llevo a
vuesa merced" (295). En ambos casos la "voz" del soldado establece
la conveniencia de su rango para atraer a una mujer y las ventajas que
puede tener para ella este emparejamiento.

Con la migración al puerto los soldados pardos experimentaron
una ascensión económica y social además de una gran movilidad
geográfica. La sociedad española y criolla de las principales ciudades
coloniales parece haberse visto amenazada no sólo por su presencia
sino también porque sus cantos y bailes, al existir fuera del recinto
religioso, no podían ser vigilados ni regulados. El traslado de su
cultura del medio rural al urbano se constituyó en una amenaza demo-
gráfica y simbólica para lo que Ángel Rama llama la "ciudad letrada,"
esa "pléyade de religiosos, administradores, educadores, profesiona-
les, escritores y múltiples servidores intelectuales [que] manejaban la
pluma [y] estaban estrechamente asociados a las funciones del poder"
(25). Al ser los depositarios de los lenguajes simbólicos tuvieron que
proscribir los que generaban las castas a través de su medio privile-
giado: la escritura del edicto.

Sin embargo, la "ciudad real," la "formada por criollos, ibéricos
desclasados, extranjeros, libertos, mulatos, zambos, mestizos" utilizó
su movilidad física y social como recurso para expandirse geográfica
y demográficamente (Rama 45). La Inquisición creyó que a través
de la escritura detendría lo que sucedía en el terreno de lo real, esto
es, la emergencia de sectores de la población mestiza. Esa población
no sólo invadió las villas sino su espacio sonoro y en sus cantos y
bailes sus prácticas sexuales encontraron un lugar de representación.
El "chuchumbé," entonces, sería el de los frailes y los soldados que
se introdujeron en las villas principales novohispanas, "violando" su
tranquilidad y diseminando sus productos culturales.

Mujeres. Las mujeres son la piedra de toque en el triángulo amo-
roso que exhibe el "Chuchumbé." Bígamas o prostitutas, su sexualidad

60 Elena Deanda Camacho

trasciende del ámbito privado hacia el público. Ya he observado las
ventajas que en las coplas parecen ofrecer los soldados a las mujeres
(ascensión social y económica). A continuación mostraré cómo el
"Chuchumbé" expone la negociación de su sexualidad como estrate-
gia económica y cómo en las denuncias se condenan más sus prácticas
sexuales que la acción de cantar, bailar, tocar o escuchar el son.

La movilidad de los hombres en la sociedad novohispana del
siglo dieciocho dejó a madres solteras en la diatriba de qué hacer
para solventar la crianza de sus hijos. A menudo estáticas, las mujeres
buscaron medios para sobrevivir económicamente en una sociedad
en la que no existía el trabajo femenino y el principal eran mantener
relaciones sexuales, como evidencian las coplas del "Chuchumbé:"
"En la esquina está parado / el que me mantiene a mí, / el que me
paga la casa / y el que me da de vestir" (294v). Ahora, si los maridos
las abandonaban, debían buscar un reemplazo que las sostuviera
económicamente. Dolores Enciso Rojas estudia la bigamia femenina
en la Nueva España y encuentra que, aunque menos frecuente que la
masculina, preocupó al Santo Oficio por el desorden que implicaba
para el censo. Sin embargo, como demuestra el Catálogo de mujeres
del ramo Inquisición del Archivo General de la Nación la bigamia no
tuvo tanta importancia en la criminalidad femenina (215 casos) como
la hechicería (584 casos).

En el siglo de las luces se acrecentó la preocupación por los
"polvos de bienquereres" que preparaban mulatas o indígenas para
"amarrar" a los hombres. Noemí Quezada encuentra que estos polvos
fueron "un mecanismo de resistencia al poder masculino Ique] propor-
cionaba la posibilidad de someter al hombre a sus deseos y fantasías"
(84).'^ La mujer se envestía de un poder mágico que podía atraer a un
hombre, retenerlo, amansarlo, pero también librarse de él. Los versos
del "Chuchumbé" ilustran el poder que tienen las mujeres (como
objetos sexuales) sobre los hombres: "En la esquina hay puñaladas, /
¡ay Dios! ¿qué será de mí?, / que aquellos tontos se matan / por esto
que tengo aquí" (294). El órgano sexual de la mujer referido indirec-
tamente ("esto que tengo aquí") tiene el mismo influjo mágico sobre
los hombres que se pelean que sobre el marido que "de fuerza ha de
volver / por lo que dejó aquí."

Se advierte, al igual que en el caso de los "polvos de bienquere-
res," la conciencia de un poder femenino en el terreno de lo sexual;
sin embargo este poder no trasciende hacia el espacio social, ahí son

'E¡ chiichumbé te he de soplar" 61

los hombres quienes las mantienen. En los versos del "Chuchumbé"
la "voz" femenina expone con amargura esta dependencia económica:
"Cuando se fue mi marido / no me dejó qué comer, / y yo lo busco
mejor / bailando el Chuchumbé" (295). La copla muestra la situación
inestable de la mujer al ser económicamente dependiente del hombre
(no tiene "qué comer") y la negociación de su sexualidad como
estrategia económica. La mujer abandonada encuentra como salida
bailar el "Chuchumbé," es decir, bailar el son "barriga con barriga"
y conquistar a otro marido, o literalmente "bailar al pene" y obtener
a través del sexo el alimento.

El desamparo de las mujeres en la Nueva España es también el
de las prostitutas, las cuales al igual que el soldado aparecen en las
coplas y en la performance del primer "son de la tierra." El 22 de
julio de 1767 el clérigo Agustín Medrano denunció a "unas mujeres
con unos soldados" que cantaban y bailaban el "Chuchumbé" en la
vecindad llamada la Colorada, y aunque "no percibió Isil las voces
del canto eran provocativas y escandalosas sí el son y baile" (14).^^
Una semana después, Gregoria Francisca Contreras, habitante de la
vecindad, confirmó en su testimonio que unas "mujercillas" permi-
tían la entrada "a toda clase de soldados" y tenían escandalizada a
la vecindad "por los bailes y glosas que ha oído [. . .] especialmente
de noche." También comentó que la dueña les pidió que se mudaran
a lo que ellas contestaron que "como todas eran viejas en la casa y
ellas muchachas y bonitas se querían alegrar;" por ello notificaron al
fraile Cayetano Vuziz para que las "compeliera se mudasen" (14v).
En su testimonio Contreras recalcó la entrada de soldados, las fiestas
nocturnas y las actitudes desenvueltas de las jóvenes, de quienes dio
sus nombres: Simona y Ana, y a quienes describió como "muchachas
distraídas de ropa" (14v).

Un segundo testigo, el español Sebastián Garcés, se presentó el 8
de agosto, insistiendo en "las frecuentes visitas y entradas y salidas
de soldados especialmente de noche" que calificó como "truhanerías"
(15v). El testigo también narró una ocasión en la cual "aunque no
entendió bien por estar medio sordo 1. . .] oyó a unos muchachos de
la misma vecindad que dijeron: "nosotros no bailamos ni cantamos el
son prohibido por la Inquisición," dichos muchachos el uno es sobrino
del padre Lhera" (15v). Garcés mencionó de manera imprecisa la
presencia de estos jóvenes a quienes defendió de haber cantado el son
incluso antes de ser acusados. También omitió sus nombres, aunque

62 Elena Deanda Camacho

no ocultó la afiliación de uno de ellos. Finalmente proporcionó datos
inexactos, como el nombre de una de las mujeres, "Mariana," y
aumentó el número de las jóvenes que ya en su testimonio sumaban
cuatro — ella y "las otras tres" (15v). Además dio cuenta de la efecti-
vidad de los habitantes para deshacerse de sus vecinas: "[. . .] el padre
casero las echó del cuarto por quejas de la vecindad" (15v).

Entre la denuncia y el segundo testimonio se replicó la necesidad
de hacer "oídos sordos" a las coplas y no obstante, reconocer el son.
El denunciante ignoraba si las canciones eran "deshonestas y provo-
cativas;" el testigo dijo que no "entendió por estar medio sordo." Al
respecto el inquisidor fiscal, el 19 de agosto, comentó que los testigos
no acertaron a "expresar qué cantares ni glosas fueron las que oyeron
sino tener entendido ser de los prohibidos" (18). Pero la contradicción
reside en el hecho de que, si es cierto que no escucharon los versos
¿cómo pudieron reconocer el son? Si fue por la música, ello indica
entonces que sí lo conocían y por ende, podían reconocerlo. Esta
minucia, por supuesto, escapó a la pesquisa inquisitorial.

El 18 de agosto los inquisidores Fierro y Amestoy mandaron al
fiscal Ñuño Nuñez de Villavicencio para que "haga [a las mujeres]
comparecer y reprehenda y amoneste se contengan en cantar sones
y cantares prohibidos por este Santo Oficio" (18). El fiscal también
pidió que se examinaran a los muchachos que citó Sebastián Garcés
pero esto no se llevó a cabo. El 29 de agosto Nuñez de Villavicencio
reunió a María Simona y Ana María junto con su madre María
Márquez a quienes "reprehendí severamente el exceso de haber usado
sones y cantares prohibidos" (20). Sin embargo, las mujeres "negaban
haber cometido tal culpa" y para exculparse denunciaron a una de
sus primas, María Josefa Guevara, quien "tomó una vihuela y cantó
el 'Chuchumbé'" (20). El fiscal la hizo comparecer y recibió la misma
respuesta dado que ella también "negó haber cantado el referido
son" (20).

Aquí el proceso ya se volvió un carnaval. No sólo porque una gran
persecución se solucionó con la reprimenda sino porque las acusadas
negaron el hecho y acusaron a alguien quien a su vez también lo negó.
El engranaje inquisitorial desplegó una energía que terminó por desin-
flarse en la clausura del caso. Y es que la intención en la acusación del
clérigo era denunciar el "Chuchumbé" pero él fue el instrumento de
los habitantes de la vecindad quienes en realidad querían deshacerse
de las mujeres y del burdel que ya habían instalado. Pero el prostíbulo

"El chuchwnbé te he de soplar " 63

no se mencionó en el proceso inquisitorial y la omisión es sintomática.
Al parecer, ante los ojos del inquisidor era posible tolerar la prostitu-
ción pero no los sones. Ello demuestra una moral "conveniente" que
resalta ciertos factores de criminalidad y disminuye otros.

La misma dinámica de énfasis y atenuación reaparece ese mismo
mes en la segunda denuncia contra el "Chuchumbé." El bachiller
Joseph Antonio de Borda acusa a Juana Gertrudis López, alias María
Ignacia Fresco, viuda y con tres hijos, porque "ha cantado el son del
'Chuchumbé' [. . .] según me dijo una huérfana de las de mi casa,"
acompañada por el sargento Joseph Laya, "el que asiste con frecuencia
en el cuarto de la nominada María Ignacia" (385).'** Esta mujer, alerta
el denunciante "pone puesto de comida en la plaza de día y no podrá
hallarse en el cuarto que refiero" (385). Igualmente denuncia a dos
sirvientas, Rosa y María, a un hombre llamado Tomás Pacheco y a
unos adolescentes, quienes cantaron "así la tonada del 'Chuchumbé'
como la del 'Animal' que según me dicen tiene unas voces: 'saran-
guandinga,' etc." (385).

En la denuncia aparece una constante: en realidad son las visitas
de los hombres al cuarto de la viuda lo que escandaliza al denunciante.
Y los "oídos sordos" vuelven. El contacto con lo obsceno recae en los
oídos de los otros, en especial en la huérfana de la casa ("según me
dijo"). Esta estrategia mantiene impoluta la conciencia del hombre
quien, no obstante, enuncia una palabra obscena: la "saranguan-
dinga." La sistematización de su denuncia va más allá del discurso, él
abre caminos a la acción inquisitorial y la previene de que la mujer no
estará cuando lleguen a buscarla. La denuncia es efectiva: el inquisidor
Joseph de Ovello Rábago envía a Alonso Velásquez Gastelu, para
reprender a las mujeres "agria y severamente al haber contravenido a
su mandato cantando sones deshonestos y prohibidos" (386).

El 3 de octubre Juana Gertrudis López comparece ante Velásquez
Gastelu, manteniéndose "negativa sobre el hecho" y callando "los
cómplices de la lasciva canción imputada" (387). Rosa, María, el
sargento Laya y los adolescentes también comparecen y son repre-
hendidos "aunque tan negativos como la principal" (387). El fiscal,
no obstante, comenta que "quien únicamente se ha mostrado rebelde
a mi citación y obstinado a su comparecencia es aquel hombre que
se dice las acompañaba a cantar [. . .] llamado Thomas Pacheco"
(387). De nuevo hay una reprimenda colectiva y además otra fuga
(los jóvenes en la primera denuncia, Tomás Pacheco en la segunda).

64 Elena Deanda Camacho

Por la invariable que estos procesos exponen, las denuncias y los tes-
timonios no censuran la obscenidad de los versos o las performances
sino el comportamiento de estas mujeres que ejercen una sexualidad
fuera del matrimonio, que albergan la fiesta y se rodean de hombres,
soldados o adolescentes.

Aunque nunca se menciona en las denuncias, realmente se persi-
gue a la prostituta; el término se ausenta pero no sus acciones. Las
prostitutas son incompatibles con la moral continente de la iglesia
católica pero las coplas del "Chuchumbé," por el contrario, les
rinden un homenaje a través de los sugestivos apodos que les dedi-
can, tales como la "Puta en cuaresma," la "Meneadora de culo" o
la "Fornicadorita" (295). Los apodos a las prostitutas que aparecen
en el "Chuchumbé" son la punta del iceberg de las "Décimas a las
Prostitutas" que confiscó la Inquisición a Juan Fernández en 1782 y
en las cuales aparecen apodos tan escandalosos como creativos: la
"Moco," la "Engrilladita," la "Panochera Carrillos," la "Tinosa," la
"Miracielos," la "Derrepente," la "Culoalegre," la "Bienmesabe," la
"Culohondo," la "Buencaballo" o la "Bocabajo" (Méndez 35-57).

Las prostitutas y los soldados no son los únicos en la fiesta del
burdel. El fraile también forma parte de este triángulo. La "mera
fornicación" de los clérigos fue largamente debatida desde los ini-
cios de la iglesia católica. Bartolomé Benassar explica que los frailes
argumentaron que si se les impedía acceder al burdel se lesionaban
tanto sus propios intereses como la misma economía de las prostitutas
y que ello los obligaba a forzar a sus hijas de confesión (288). Para
terminar estas fortuitas prácticas sexuales el rey Felipe IV decretó el
cierre de los prostíbulos en España desde 1623 pero como la "mera
fornicación" no era sino un pecado venial el burdel siempre gozó de
una velada tolerancia.

Frailes. Los frailes compartieron con soldados y otras clases des-
castadas el espacio del burdel y la fiesta, pero tuvieron además de este
espacio uno sagrado, el confesionario, en donde si bien no entró la
lírica sí lo hizo la obscenidad. Desde el confesionario, el erotismo de
los frailes implicaba una doble traición para la Iglesia porque no sólo
quebrantaba el proceso de implantación de una moral ejemplar en la
grey católica sino que lo hacía literalmente desde el interior del sis-
tema. El "Chuchumbé" expone las prácticas sexuales de los frailes de
manera directa o indirecta: "El demonio del jesuíta / con el sombrero
tan grande, / me metía un zurriago / tan grande como su padre" o

'£/ chuchumbé te he de soplar" 65

"Esta vieja santularia / que va y viene a San Francisco, / toma el padre,
daca el padre / y es el padre de sus hijos" (294).

En la primera copla se habla de un jesuíta metiendo un zurriago
(otro eufemismo para el pene) a una persona. Se exageran además las
dimensiones de su "sombrero" o escroto. Esta hiperbólica descripción
del órgano sexual del clérigo y la violencia que ejerce en la persona
que funge como "voz" en la copla, son dos factores que permiten
comprender la urgencia de la Inquisición por prohibir la difusión del
"Chuchumbé." En la segunda copla se mencionan las visitas regulares
al convento de una beata y la razón es que (como resultado de un pro-
ceso toma y daca claramente sexual) sus hijos son de un fraile. Esto es,
los hijos no son sólo de confesión sino también de sangre. Los padres
de la iglesia son literalmente padres de sus hijos. En estas coplas se
denuncian sus prácticas sexuales y se desacredita la regulación de la
autoridad eclesiástica sobre ellos.

El delito de la solicitación, de acuerdo con Marcela Suárez, se
extendió a lo largo del siglo de las luces porque al ser eliminados los
problemas de los luteranos, moriscos y judíos "el Santo Oficio quedó
casi sin un objetivo prioritario contra el cual dirigir su complicada
y precisa maquinaria y es lógico que su interés se volviera entonces
hacia cuestiones que no [la] habían atraído tanto anteriormente" (17).
La solicitación se define como el "hacer proposiciones deshonestas,
o intentar seducir a sus hijas de confesión antes, durante o después
de ésta o con pretextos espirituales" (Suárez 18). Ya desde el siglo
dieciséis en la Nueva España se proclamó un edicto en su contra, pero
en ese momento numerosas dudas aparecieron sobre si las indias,
africanas y mulatas debían denunciarlo, ya que siendo "nuevas en la
religión" no sabrían distinguir entre sus pasiones y sus responsabili-
dades religiosas.'''

En 1716 se publicó un edicto que prohibía ciertos libritos que
decían que "la mujer solicitada ad turpia en el acto de la confesión
sacramental, no tiene obligación de denunciar si consiente en la culpa"
(1).-° Estos libros, de supuesto origen clerical, aprovecharon las nume-
rosas vacilaciones del Santo Oficio para abrir espacios de libertad
sexual. La solicitación de las hijas de confesión hacía tambalear el
engranaje inquisitorio desde el interior de la iglesia. Y si el pene de los
soldados "violaba" a las villas con su presencia, el de los frailes "vio-
laba" el recinto sagrado. La intrusión de las fiestas de la "plebe" en
las villas coloniales y del sexo en el confesionario, fueron situaciones

66 Elena Denuda Camacho

que perturbaron la regulación de la vida cotidiana que llevaban a cabo
la iglesia y su instrumento coercitivo inquisitorial.

En suma, tanto la "mera fornicación" como los delitos sexuales
de la bigamia y la solicitación amenazaban el equilibrio instituido por
la iglesia y el virreinato; y afrentaban la institución del matrimonio,
el dogma del celibato y el voto de castidad. La violenta fractura del
tejido social de la sociedad novohispana del siglo dieciocho se cris-
talizó en el evento disruptivo de este son y la censura sirvió como
instrumento terapéutico para restablecer ese equilibrio a través de la
prohibición, el silencio y el olvido.

Howard Poole afirma que la censura no desaprueba las cosas sino
a la gente y más precisamente, sus acciones (40). Judah Bierman, por
su lado, asevera que la censura no se dirige a las personas (o sus accio-
nes) sino a las representaciones que éstas construyen: "[. . .] lo que
tememos y combatimos y prohibimos, lo que permanece irredimible
por no tener un valor social son las representaciones del placer sexual"
(14). No existe en ambos argumentos contradicción alguna sino una
relación de continuidad. Las representaciones del placer sexual suelen
excitar la imaginación y pueden originar acciones. El "Chuchumbé"
representaba las prácticas sexuales de los pardos, de las mujeres de
costumbres relajadas y los frailes; y podía originar acciones aún más
graves (en la misma dinámica del pecado venial al mortal) como los
movimientos de Independencia (que comenzaron a aparecer a finales
del siglo dieciocho y principios del diecinueve); por ello debió ser
refrenado, porque atentaba en contra de la implementación de una
moral católica y una hegemonía imperial.

En Vigilar y castigar Michel Foucault advierte que el sistema de
producción colonial debía contener la sexualidad de sus gobernados
para garantizar la economía del gasto material: "[. . .] si se reprime
el sexo con tanto vigor, es porque resulta ser incompatible con el
trabajo general e intensivo" (112). El trabajo intensivo fue la base
del imperialismo español en el continente americano y por ello las
prácticas sexuales, y sus incitadoras representaciones, debieron ser
reprimidas. El cuerpo debía disciplinarse y estar bajo control; por
tanto, los poderes reales y religiosos promovieron la existencia de un
"sujeto obediente [. . .1 sujeto a hábitos, reglas, órdenes" (Foucault
129) que debía, idealmente, auto-regular sus pulsiones.

El control en el caso del "Chuchumbé" fue más allá de la injeren-
cia institucional. El acto de denunciar al otro o la autodenuncia fueron

"El chuchumbé te he de soplar" 67

claves en la solidificación de este sistema disciplinario. La performance
de los sones novohispanos se convirtió en un escenario problemático
no sólo para los músicos sino también para la audiencia. Si alguien
presenciaba algo considerado como inapropiado sentía la necesidad de
denunciarlo para evitar ser considerado un cómplice. Para minimizar
la sospecha, el acusado debía culpar a otros y desviar la mirada del
inquisidor. El Santo Oficio implantó con sus numerosas prohibicio-
nes y amenazas un vigilante super-ego (el "panóptico" foucaultiano)
que condenaba al cuerpo a ser observado por sus coetáneos en cada
una de sus actividades sociales. En las acusaciones en contra del
"Chuchumbé" es evidente que los procesos legales no fueron tan
efectivos (terminando siempre con una reprimenda) como la interna-
lización de esa autocensura que consolidó el poder prescriptivo de la
institución en la conciencia de cada uno de los individuos.

Así como cada persona era inquisidor, así también el "Chuchumbé"
compartió con el Santo Oficio su voluntad de censura. Foucault
advierte que "la memoria popular reproduce en rumores el austero
discurso de la ley" (113). Ello significa que el individuo no sólo se
refleja y hace reflejar a su audiencia en el interior de su(s) propio(s)
discurso(s) sino que reproduce el discurso que enfrenta. En este sen-
tido la performance (al igual que la obscenidad) refleja a la censura.
El "Chuchumbé" imita a la Inquisición porque está disgustado con un
proceder (la solicitación) que pasa impune ante las autoridades ecle-
siásticas, critica el comportamiento lascivo y excesivo de los frailes,
los culpa de una práctica sexual no permitida y los censura al ridiculi-
zarlos; él mismo se vuelve denunciante de una ilegalidad que le parece
tan perturbadora como su misma acción ante los ojos de la ley.

Hasta aquí pareciera que fue la Inquisición la que ganó en la bata-
lla en contra del "Chuchumbé." No obstante, las dinámicas de poder
tanto de la obscenidad como de la censura, se muestran dialógicas.
Cada instancia ofrece fortalezas y fracturas. La censura, por ejemplo,
sufre de una gran contradicción ya que al reprobar lo que teme lo
publicita y al hacerlo revierte su acción moralizante e incentiva el
discurso, creando espacios para hablar de lo obsceno, para registrarlo
y distribuirlo. Si la censura es una "incitación regulada y polimorfa
hacia el discurso," de acuerdo con Foucault (47), el "Chuchumbé" es
un buen ejemplo de esta diseminación ya que detonó en la lírica novo-
hispana una descarga de sones paródicos y obscenos que denunciaban
la afición clerical a los placeres de la carne.^'

68 Elena Deanda Camacho

El "Chuchumbé" perdió la batalla al desaparecer del uso colec-
tivo; ello demuestra la efectividad de la Inquisición en la restricción
de la memoria oral, pero al ser registrado como documento legal
prevaleció en la historia. A principios de los años ochenta Gilberto
Gutiérrez, del grupo de son jarocho "Mono Blanco," exhumó los
versos y grabó algunos de ellos en la producción "El mundo se va a
acabar." En 1990 otro grupo de son jarocho se apropió del nombre y
es llamado desde entonces "Chuchumbé." Hoy este son forma parte
del repertorio musical jarocho. La reapropiación muestra cómo la ora-
lidad entró en el terreno de lo escrito y encontró una salida de nuevo
en lo oral. Esta vez transformada, el "Chuchumbé" ya no enfrenta a
instituciones sino que consolida la identidad regional de los habitantes
de la costa veracruzana.^^

En la batalla que libraron el "Chuchumbé" y la Inquisición a
finales del siglo dieciocho, hubo en el plano de la memoria y el olvido,
de la oralidad y la escritura, suficientes victorias y derrotas. El Santo
Oficio pudo conjurar el baile y las coplas del "Chuchumbé" pero no
pudo frenar la presencia desestabilizadora de las castas, el erotismo
rampante de hombres y mujeres y la ristra de aquellos "sones de la
tierra" que lo sucederían invadiendo el espacio sonoro de las ciudades
novohispanas. Lo guardó celosamente en sus archivos y lo preservó
en la memoria del tiempo. El "Chuchumbé," sinécdoque del cuerpo
de pardos y frailes, no soportó la restricción pero sus coplas, su
música y performance pudieron, al menos, provocar la excitación y
el miedo de sus censores, violar las actas inquisitoriales y volver hoy
como espectros textuales para llenarse de nuevos significados. Si su
derramamiento no alcanzó a fecundar ninguna subversión, al menos
sí logró un inquietante barullo de disidencia.

Notas

1. Todas las traducciones del inglés o del francés al español son mías
a menos que se especifique lo contrario.

2. El término "sones de la tierra" se alterna con el de canciones, aires
o tonadas. En general los "sones de la tierra" serían un género lírico y coreo-
gráfico del siglo dieciocho con una estructura poética de copla y estribillo,
acompañada de danzas, en reuniones llamadas fandangos.

3. Los análisis contemporáneos sobre el "Chuchumbé" han intentado
situarlo en el mundo etno-musicológico o histórico y han obliterado el texto

'El chuchumbé te he de soplar " 69

y su performance; ello abre un espacio en la empresa del análisis textual que
esta aproximación pretende completar. Algunos ejemplos incluyen: Rolando
Antonio Pérez Fernández, "El chuchumbé y la buena palabra." Son del sur 3
(1996): 24-36; Rolando Antonio Pérez Fernández, "El chuchumbé y la buena
palabra II." Son del sur 4 (1997): 33-45; María Águeda Méndez y Georges
Baudot, "El chuchumbé, un son jacarandoso del México virreinal." Caravelle:
cahiers du monde hispanique el luso-brésilien 48 (1987): 163-171.

4. Sobre la música indígena véase Dorothy Tanck de Estrada, Pueblos
de indios y educación en el México colonial: 1 750-1821 (México: El Colegio
de México, 1999).

5. Fernando de Ocaranza, "Relación histórica de los primitivos
religiosos que plantaron la fe en esta Nueva España." Capítulos de historia
franciscana (México: s/e, 1934).

6. En 1587 el Virrey autorizó las fiestas en la ciudad de México durante
días festivos, del mediodía a las seis de la tarde, penando con cárcel y azotes
a quienes hicieran lo contrario. Gabriel Saldívar, Historia de la música en
México (México: SEP, 1934).

7. Santiago de Murcia, Saldívar Codex No. 4: Santiago de Murcia
manuscript of baroque guitar music (c.l732) [. . .] (Santa Bárbara, CA:
Michael Lorimer, 1987).

8. Sobre el "Padre nuestro" y los "Mandamientos. "Archivo General
de la Nación. Inquisición. Vol. 368. Exp. 12. Foja 65. Inquisición. Vol. 303.
Exp. 8. Foja 34.

9. En la denuncia aparecen treinta y nueve coplas: veinte cuartetas
octosilábicas y diecinueve estribillos organizados en dos o tres líneas, de
metro y rima irregular. En general la trascripción carece de rigor y las coplas
padecen de una indeterminación que puede deberse a la naturaleza en ciernes
de esta lírica o al descuido del transcriptos Las denuncias, por otro lado,
en contra del "Chuchumbé" o de personas acusadas de haberlo cantado
o tocado son cinco: la de 1766 en contra del son; la de 1767 en contra de
Simona y Ana; la de 1767 en contra de María Ignacia Fresco; la de 1767
en contra de Juan Luis Soler (un cocinero español acusado por una india)
y la de 1772 en contra del organista de la catedral de Xalapa (por haberlo
tocado en la misa).

10. Inquisición Vol. 1052. Exp. 20. Fojas 292-295. Todas las coplas
citadas provienen de la denuncia en contra del "Chuchumbé" y están locali-
zadas en las fojas 294, 294v y 295.

11. La denuncia, las circulares administrativas, los testimonios y las
ratificaciones se encuentran en el mismo expediente. Inquisición. Vol. 1052.
Exp. 20. Fojas 292-298.

12. Edicto inquisitorial. Inquisición. Vol. 1075. Exp. 14. Foja 140.

13. Gonzalo Aguirre Beltrán acuñó en los años cincuenta el término

70 Elena Deanda Camacho

"afromestizos" para distinguir a los grupos de ascendencia africana de aque-
llos de ascendencia indígena o "indomestizos." Gonzalo Aguirre Beltrán, La
población negra de México: estudio etnohistórico (México: FCE, 1989).

14. Durante el siglo diecisiete las comunidades africanas experimentaron
una libertad inédita en comparación con otros dominios coloniales. Los cima-
rrones (esclavos en fuga) establecieron quilombos, palenques y mocambos con
los nombres de Mandinga, Matamba o Yanga. Alfredo Delgado Calderón,
"Los negros del sur," Sotr del sur 1 (1995): 27-32. Octaviano Corro Ramos,
Cimarrones en Veracruz y la fundación de Amapa (Veracruz: Citlaltépetl,
1974). Patrick CarroU, Blacks in Colonial Veracruz: Race, Ethnicity and
Regional Development (Austin: U of Texas P, 1991).

15. Tras el saqueo del pirata Lorencillo al puerto de Veracruz en 1683 se
reclutó una armada de pardos para defender el puerto de los ataques piratas.
"Bamburria" se le llamó al excesivo despliegue de fuerzas y según Aguirre
Tinoco, esta sería la raíz de uno de los sones jarochos más célebres en México
y el extranjero: "La Bamba" (46).

16. Entre los más inauditos ingredientes de estos polvos se encuentran
sesos de asno, corazones de cuervo, dedos de ahorcado, cabellos, uñas,
menstruo o excrementos que solían verterse en el chocolate o amasarse con
las tortillas. Adriana Rodríguez Delgado, Catálogo de mujeres del ramo
Inquisición del Archivo General de la Nación 142-51.

17. Denuncias, circulares, testimonios y ratificaciones en el mismo
expediente. Inquisición. Vol. 1065. Exp. 3. Fojas 14-20.

18. Ibidem. Inquisición. Vol. 1019. Exp. 20. Fojas 385-387.

19. En 1581 el fraile Alonso de Noreña de Guatemala preguntó al
Santo Oficio de México si el edicto "obliga también a las mujeres indias
[. . .]. Por[que] vuestra señoría me ha escrito que por ser los indios nuevos
y flacos a la fe que este Santo Oficio no conoce[n] de cosas tocantes a ello."
Inquisición. Vol. 90. Exp. (80) 21. Foja 1.

20. Edicto inquisitorial. Indiferente Virreinal. Caja 0281.

21. En la parodia religiosa: las "Bendiciones" (1785), las "Boleras"
(1797) y el "Bonete del Cura" (1808). María Águeda Méndez, Amores
prohibidos 45-77.

22. Alfredo Delgado Calderón, "Semblanza histórica del son jarocho."
Son del sur 8 (2000): 29-35.

Obras citadas

Aguirre Tinoco, Humberto. Sones de la tierra y cantares jarochos. Veracruz:
Casa de la Cultura de Tlacotalpan-IVEC, 1991.

"El chuchunibé te he de soplar" 71

Archivo General de la Nación. Ramo Inquisición. Vol. 90. Exp. (80) 21. Foja

1. Inquisición. Vol. 303. Exp. 8. Foja 34. Inquisición. Vol. 368. Exp. 12.

Foja 65. Inquisición. Vol. 1019. Exp. 20. Fojas 385-387. Inquisición

Vol. 1052. Exp. 20. Fojas 292-298. Inquisición. Vol. 1065. Exp. 3. Fojas

14-20. Inquisición. Vol. 1075. Exp. 14. Foja 140. Indiferente Virreinal.

Caja 0281.
Bakhtin, Mikhail. Rabelais and His World. Trad. Hélène Iswolsky. Cambridge:

MIT, 1968.
Bauman, Richard. Story, Performance, and Event: Contextual Studies of Oral

Narrative. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1986.
Benassar, Bartolomé. Inquisición española: poder político y control social.

Madrid: Crítica, 1984.
Bierman, Judah. "Censorship and the Languages of Lo ve." The Family Life

Coordinator 14.1 (1965): 10-16.
Chuchumbé. "¡Caramba, niño!" Alebrije, 1999.
Enciso Rojas, Dolores. "Inquisición, bigamia y bigamos en Nueva España."

Quezada, Inquisición novohispana 63-76.
Foucault, Michel. Vigilar y castigar: nacimiento de la prisión. Trad. Aurelio

Garzón del Camino. México: Siglo XXI, 1992.
Gutiérrez, Gilberto, Mono Blanco, y Stone Lips. "El Chuchumbé." El mundo

se va a acabar. Urtext, 1998.
Méndez, María Águeda, comp. y ed. Amores prohibidos: la palabra con-
denada en el México de los virreyes. Antología de coplas y versos

censurados por la Inquisición de México. México: Siglo XXI, 1997.
Pierrot, Emmanuel. Le bonheur de vivre en enfer. París: Maren Sell Editeurs,

2004.
Poole, Howard. "Obscenity and Censorship." Ethics 93 (1982): 39-44.
Quezada, Noemí, Martha Eugenia Rodríguez, y Marcela Suárez. Eds.

Inquisición novohispana. México: UNAM-UAM, 2000.
. "Cosmovisión, sexualidad e Inquisición." Quezada, Inquisición

novohispana. 77-86.
Rama, Ángel. La ciudad letrada. Hanover, NH: Ediciones del Norte, 1984.
Rodríguez Delgado, Adriana, comp. y ed. Catálogo de mujeres del ramo

Inquisición del Archivo General de la Nación. México: INAH, 2000.
Suárez, Marcela. "Sexualidad, Inquisición y herejía en la Nueva España de

las Luces." Quezada, Inquisición novohispana. 13-24.

The Hour and Turn of João Guimarães
Rosa: Symbolic Discourse and Death in
the Academia Brasileira de Letras

Joshua Alma Enslen
University of Georgia

[A]qui é uma estória inventada, e não é um caso
acontecido, não senhor.

Guimarães Rosa
"A hora e a vez de Augusto Matraga"

For where a testament is, there must also of
necessity be the death of the testator.

Hebrews 9.16

João Guimarães Rosa's death — bis moment of "absolute singularity"
(Derrida 22) — took place on the 19'*' of November 1967, On the W^
of that same montb, Guimarães Rosa íinally accepted bis chair at the
Academia Brasileira de Letras (ABL), delivering a speech entitled "O
verbo &: o logos." Tbis speecb (presumably the autbor's last "literary"
work) would be the first of three commemorative speecbes to take
place over the course of the next four days. The second address, by
Afonso Arinos de Melo Franco, was delivered immediately foUowing
Guimarães Rosa's speech. In bis address, Afonso Arinos ceremoni-
ously welcomed Guimarães Rosa into the Academy. Yet, less tban
seventy-two hours later, Rosa unexpectedly died of a beart attack in
bis apartment in Rio de Janeiro. As a result, only four days after tbe
autbor's induction, a third speecb would take place. On tbe lO^*" of
November, Austregésilo de Athayde delivered bis eulogistic "Discurso
de adeus a Guimarães Rosa," bidding farewell to tbe distinguisbed
Brazilian writer and diplomar.

In the introduction to Sobrados e mucambos^ Gilberto Freyre
writes that "O homem morto ainda é, de certo modo, homem social"
(xxxix). It is tbis sociality of death and its relationship to the writer

72 MESTER, VOL. XXXVI (2007)

The Hour and Tum ofjoão Guimarães Rosa 73

as a national symbol that is of interest in our analysis of these three
ABL speeches. These speeches inhabit an exemplary "in between"
space located at the crux of important cultural symbols, limits, insti-
tutions, and events which converge during the four day period that
encompasses Guimarães Rosa's induction into this society "ad immor-
talitatem" and his death. To borrow from the memorialist Maureen
Murdock that "[a]n individual memory becomes the repository of a
familial or cultural memory" (115), these three works dredge deep
currents within Brazilian history, geography and identity as they seek
to find suitable national symbols for representing death in the ABL.
This article will analyze how Athayde's eulogy of Rosa together with
Guimarães Rosa's own and Arinos's speeches seek not only to bring
national significance to the inductee's life and work, but also serve as
equally mythical readings of the entire nation in light of the death of
one of its most celebrated authors.

The ABL was founded in Rio de Janeiro by Machado de Assis
and others such as José Veríssimo and Joaquim Nabuco in 1897 with
a mission to standardize the nation's language while also canonizing
its literature. The "Estatutos da Academia Brasileira de Letras," writ-
ten in the same year the institution was founded, clearly and concisely
delinéate this purpose. Originally modeled after its French counterpart,
the ABL memorializes, through election, those Brazilian authors whose
works have been perceived as being of national consequence: "Só
podem ser membros efetivos da Academia os brasileiros que tenham,
em qualquer dos géneros de literatura, publicado obras de reconhecido
mérito ou, fora desses géneros, livro de valor literário" (Henriques 10).
The ABL represented a sincere interest on behalf of late 19* century
intellectuals to further the project of national integration by creating a
society of Brazilian writers whose works had "reconhecido mérito."

Although they were unable to predict the politicai turmoil that
would characterize Brazil in the coming century, the ABL's founders had
already imagined, in counterpoint to the unstable politics of the First
Republic (1889-1930), the importance of a steadfast hterary estab-
lishment. The ABL envisioned itself as a society capable of classifying
the parameters by which literature and language could accompany
politicai and economic developments. Along with being founded
contemporaneously with the organization of the First Republic, the
early members of the ABL also witnessed the unprecedented economic
growth of, and immigration to, southeastern Brazil.

74 Joshiia Alma Enslen

By glorifying Brazil's preeminent historians, critics, and writers,
the ABL helped to engender a sense of collective right to national self-
determination, crucial for the definition of Brazilian identity among
the ehte. Accordingly, Machado de Assis, in his inaugural address,
anticipated that the role of his institution would be to "conservar,
no meio da federação política, a unidade literária" ("Na Academia"
926). Likewise, Joaquim Nabuco, at the same session, proposed that:
"A formação da Academia de Letras é a afirmação de que literária,
como politicamente, somos uma nação que tem o seu destino, seu
caráter distinto" (par. 17). Thus, it was proposed by its founders
that, aithough the ABL should be a function of the national project,
it should not be subject to coeval politicai troubles. In his inaugural
speech, Machado further reiterated that the ABL needed to follow the
French Academy's example in order to "sobreviver aos acontecimentos
de toda a casta, às escolas literárias e às transformações civis" ("Na
Academia" 926).^ Or rather, to borrow^ from Homi K. Bhabha,
Machado suggests that the ABL should not be grounded in any
specific literary school or politicai movement, but be grounded in the
"nation as a symbolic force" (1).

This symbolic role of the ABL in proposing an immutable con-
stancy in the face of politicai change is no more evident than in the
manner by which the institution has glorified its deceased members
while maintaining control over the admission of new ones. In the ABL,
there is a constant membership of forty Brazilian writers, correspond-
ing to an equal number of available chairs. In order for a new writer
to be elected into one of the forty chairs, a current one must first
pass away. The seat then becomes available for a successor to assume
occupancy and take his place in the literary society.

In 1908, the ABL's first president, Machado de Assis, passed
away and Lafayette Rodrigues Pereira was invited to take his place.
Lafayette had, years previous, defended the work of Machado against
the criticisms of Sílvio Romero by publishing four contestatory arricies
in the Jornal do Comércio (Montello, O Presidente 318). For this
reason, he was deemed by the ABL as Machado's appropriate suc-
cessor. Lafayette accepted the invitation, but for unknown reasons
he refused to deliver the traditional "Discurso de posse" that would
have praised Machado's Ufe and work. Since Machado de Assis
was, in the words of Josué Montello, "a mais alta glória literária do
Brasil," he was denied by Lafayette's refusal to speak, "o louvor que

The Hour and Tiirn ofjoão Guimarães Rosa 75

lhe era devido" (O Presidente 320). Years later in 1926, the Academy
would still feel that too little had been done to memorialize their first
president. That year, the then president Coelho Neto appealed to
the nation for the construction of a monument that would venérate
the memory of Machado de Assis. For Coelho Neto, this monument
would represent the "glorificação devida a um dos maiores vultos da
literatura pátria e um dos mais peritos lapidarios da língua portu-
guesa" (Montello, O Presidente 333).

In the words of Jeffrey D. Needell, the predominant concept
among the members of the Academy at its founding was that
"national literature was the nation's soul, memory, and conscience"
(182). The role of death in creating this society "ad immortalitatem"
reflects the elite 's Ímpetus towards glorifying the nation by glorifying
its literature. As demonstrated by this example with Machado, when
a member of the ABL dies, the society attempts to affirm through sym-
bolic discourse the assurance of that writer's place within the national
canon of literary "immortals." When Lafayette refused to deliver his
"Discurso de posse," he frustrated this process.

With Guimarães Rosa's death decades later, this process would
be far from frustrated. Not only would Rosa be glorified through
Athayde's speech just after his death, the whole affair was shrouded
in death-both symbolic and real. Even Rosa himself contemplated
the subject in his speech praising his predecessor, the deceased fellow
writer-diplomat João Neves da Fontoura. While speaking, Guimarães
Rosa echoes Freyre's core implication cited previously by stating
that, "A gente morre é para provar que viveu" (85). Death, in this
sense, instead of being the antithesis of hfe, represents the final step
in a social process by which one's life takes on coUective significance
for the survivors. In Guimarães Rosa's case and in that of other
"immortals," it is left to the ABL to decide how to construe the
"proof" of the deceased's life in a way that depicts the institution's
own symbolic glory.

While proclaiming Guimarães Rosa's work as "uma das conquis-
tas mundiais da cultura brasileira" (100), Afonso Arinos's speech
deals with death on a literary levei. He postulates that the death of
Diadorim in Grande sertão: veredas symbolizes "uma espécie de
expressão mais alta da humanidade" (103). Four days later, Athayde's
speech would be no less symbolic. He proposed that, through death,
Guimarães Rosa became a part of "[a]queles que a morte revitalize,

76 Joshua Alma Enslen

sendo perene portanto o processo reintegratório do humus fecundo"
(111). If Guimarães Rosa was culturally invigorated by death, as
Athayde suggests, then this symbolic turn to life takes on monumental
national significance within the Academy. Concerned not necessarily
with Guimarães Rosa's physical remains, but rather with his social
ones, these ABL speeches configure death in a collective sense in
order to consolidate and perpetúate an eternal national ideal linked
with literature. Similar to Machado, Guimarães Rosa, as a canonized
writer within the ABL, is articulated in these speeches as the cultural
gatekeeper of the nation's eternal narration.

In order to provide "proof" of the writer's immortality, the com-
memorative speeches surrounding Rosa's death align themselves with
important national symbols. In his speech, Afonso Arinos compares
Guimarães Rosa's writing to Brasilia: "Fizestes com elas [as palavras]
o que Lúcio Costa e Osear Niemeyer fizeram com as linhas e os vol-
umes inexistentes: uma construção para o mundo, no meio do Brasil"
(99). Although its construction is most directly associated with the
Kubitschek presidency, Brasilia is a national symbol that is greater
than the period in which it was created. Brasilia, similar to the empty
chairs in the ABL, is a physical location continually (re)occupied by
successive politicai representatives. Thus, Arinos proposes that Brasilia
and Guimarães Rosa represent, the former physically and the latter
discursively, the empty space wherein the nation might be written "no
meio do Brasil."

If nations are at once finite and imagined as infinite,- the success-
ful creation and articulation of national symbols through writing is
necessary in order to affect the erasure of their finitude. Death brings
to the forefront this paradox since, according to Derrida, it is an
ambiguous cultural and biological event that imposes a limit (42). The
limit imposed by death is reflected at the borders of nations and cul-
tures. As those who write the nation cross the border of death, there
is space for what Derrida calis the "possibility of the impossible" (11).
The ambivalent spaces of death allow for proscription since "Dying
is neither entirely natural (biological) ñor cultural. And the question
of limits articulated [. . .] is also the question of the border between
cultures, languages, countries, nations, and religions" (42). Even if
death, and specifically Guimarães Rosa's death may be, as Derrida
proposed, a phenomenon that "ñames the very irreplaceability of
absolute singularity (no one can die in my place or in the place of the

The Hour atui Turn ofjoão Guimarães Rosa 77

other)" (22), within it rests a sufficient emptiness to allow for ground-
ing its collective meaning in the nation.

In his speech "O verbo & o logos," Guimarães Rosa contemplates
the challenges of adequately remembering João Neves, the predecessor
to his chair. He expresses a sense of obHgation to portray João Neves's
"individual greatness" not as relative to his life, but rather in absolute
terms: "Como redemonstrar a grandeza individual de um homem,
mérito longuíssimo, sua humanidade profunda: passar do João Neves
relativo ao João Neves absoluto? Sua perene lembrança-me reobriga"
(59). In this way, with the advent of physical death, the relativity ofjoão
Neves's life becomes transformed through its "perennial remembrance"
into an absolute. Guimarães Rosa recognizes writing as an inexact, yet
necessary operation of contextualizing an absolute. By remembering
his predecessor as an entity not destroyed by death, but rather made
absolute by it, Guimarães Rosa gives cultural and collective significance
to the individual life of his predecessor. The next two sentences in the
passage read: "O afeto propõe fortes e miúdas reminiscências. Por essa
mesma proximidade, tanto e muito me escapa; fino, estranho, inaca-
bado, é sempre o destino da gente" (59). In this way, writing becomes an
"unfinished" act that, like death, has limitless rhetorical possibilities.

Although it is true that the relationship between death and the
nation in the ABL reflects in a relative sense the ways in which death's
collective meaning may be symbolically inscribed within certain
geopolitical borders, in the case of Guimarães Rosa, remembering
or writing death also conversely demonstrares an erasure of borders
between the physical and the metaphysical. This erasure of borders
is needed to express a parallel between the "absolute" individual and
the infinite nation. According to Guimarães Rosa, as he and Neves
worked together as diplomats, they often referred to one another by
substituting their proper names with toponyms. In Guimarães Rosa's
speech, this habitual occurrence between the two expresses a limitless
metaphysicality that replaces not only Neves and Rosa's limited indi-
vidual mortality, but also the nation's delimited geography:

Por mim, frequente respondia-lhe topando topónimos.
-"Cachoeira concorda?" -se bem que, no comum, o
chamasse "Ministro." Escuto-o: -"£ agora? Que há com
Cordisburgo?"

- Muito, Ministro. Muita coisa [. . .] (58)

78 joshiia Alma Enslen

Just as topographic dots and Unes on a physical map represent the literal
shape of the nation, the substitution of João Neves's proper ñame for
his hometown of Cachoeira, Rio Grande do Sul and that of Guimarães
Rosa's proper ñame for his hometown of Cordisburgo, Minas Gerais
articúlate these writer-diplomats as toponymic metaphors, capable of
giving metaphysical form to Brazil. Through the articulation of this
substitution, these dialogues between Guimarães Rosa and João Neves
"induce the body to become a cultural sign" (Butler 522), erasing the
borders between the individual and the nation.

By linking Guimarães Rosa's implication that within this top-
onymic metonymy there is "muita coisa," we can begin to consider
the repercussions of his prior remarle: "entendíamos juntos, do modo,
o país entrançado e uno, nosso primordial encontro seriam resvés
íntimos efeitos regionais" (58). As these writers transform themselves
discursively into "efeitos regionais," Rosa's speech not only proposes
an eternal connection between writing and Brazil, but also elides the
politicai, cultural, and even geographic differences found within its
territory. This elisión is accomplished by implementing a mystifying
homogenous discourse which casts Brazil's long history of struggles
between regional cultures and politics as mere "efeitos regionais" in
favor of the national consolidation of a "país, entrançado e uno"
(58). As they become the loci for national metonymy, Rosa and
Neves amass cultural weight transformed from writers of the nation
into writers-as-the-nation, replacing Brazil's physical borders with a
limitless metaphysicality. Or rather, as long as Rosa and Neves remain
"perene," so does Brazil.

Drawing a parallel with the early years of the ABL, this metonymy
is reminiscent of the words of Coelho Neto when he proposed that
"AINDA QUE ELE PRÓPRIO, com a pena, haja construído o monu-
mento perene do seu nome,"' Machado, through the construction
of a monument that would be a "preito nacional," could "tornar
à superfície da vida ressurgido em gloria" (Montello, O Presidente
332-333). Just as Neves and Guimarães Rosa were to be grounded
in fixed geographic locations, Machado's monument was to affix his
memory to a visible public space in Rio de Janeiro. Whether in the
streets of Rio, in an empty chair of the ABL or in the sertão of Minas
Gerais, the ABL transforms writers of the nation into writers-as-the-
nation, providing the visible physical "proof" of literature's symbolic
national role.

The Hoitr and Tiirn ofjoão Guimarães Rosa 79

This transformation ofjoão Neves, Guimarães Rosa and Machado
de Assis from the "relative" to the "absolute" is ultimately only pos-
sible through death because it creates the discursive space wherein the
appropriate symbols might be constructed. The toponymic metonymy
found in Guimarães Rosa's speech produces a powerful metaphor that
inhabits the symboHc space associated with the traditions of writing,
death and the nation in the ABL. Guimarães Rosa erases the borders
ofjoão Neves's relativity to fictionahze an absolute "mundo mágico"
(87) in which the writer and nation can symbiotically and symboh-
cally coexist. Through death, João Neves's reievance in the land of
the hving is guaranteed as he passes "para o lado claro, fora e acima
de suave ramerrão e terríveis balbúrdias" (85) becoming a permanent
fixture, like the "fortes gerais estrelas" and the "mugibundo buriti,"
in the landscape of Guimarães Rosa's "magic" Brazil (87).

Once Guimarães Rosa's speech was concluded, he was, in keeping
with tradition, ceremoniously received into the Academy with Afonso
Arinos's address. Concerning the new inductee's literature, Arinos
suggested: "Vosso poder criador foi descobrindo, na sucessão das
obras-primas, um mundo de símbolos, que testemunham realidades
insuspeitadas da vida e do espírito" (93). Correspondingly, the most
expressive of these moments in which Arinos proposes the literary to not
only "testemunhar," but also actually transform "realidades" evolves
around the death of Diadorim in Rosa's Grande sertão: veredas:

Entre mar e céu surgem da vossa pena as figuras imortais
dos homens e mulheres de um outro Brasil, que ambos
conhecemos e amamos, o dos campos gerais das savanas
do São Francisco. [. . .] Vossa representação simbólica desse
homem e dessa mulher, em síntese, chegou ao ápice na
figura de Diadorim, homem e mulher ao mesmo tempo. Há,
para mim, outro símbolo na morte de Diadorim, que é uma
humana transfiguração. Vivo, na luta suja da vida, ele era
homem; mas morta ela se transfigura em mulher, sem sexo,
neutra como na palavra alemã, elevando-se a uma espécie
de expressão mais alta da humanidade. (103)

Arinos's interpretation of the death of Diadorim proposes that writ-
ing has tangible social ramifications because it may "movimentalr]
e dirig[irl a mutação incessante da realidade" (102). This mythical

80 joshiia Alma Enslen

narrative process is linked with the sociality of death to the degree
that Diadorim's heroic yet violent death becomes capacitated to
transform the Hving. According to Arinos, as the author creates
some "outro Brasil" in Grande sertão: veredas^ Rosa's "figuras
imortais" begin a modal process of transposition that culminates
with their articulation as symbols of ali humanity, exemplified by
Diadorim's death. Thus, for Arinos, writing death "unifica a diver-
sidade e assegura a continuidade" (102). Erasing the inequalities
not only between nations, but also between "men" and "women"
everywhere, the symbol of death multiplies the image of Diadorim
into an endless expression (however imaginary it may be) of the
eternal solidarity of ali humankind. While Guimarães Rosa's writ-
ing is described by Arinos as "a arquitetura do Planalto, uma das
conquistas mundiais da cultura brasileira" (100), Diadorim's death
likewise immortalizes Brazilian literature to the degree that it places
the nation's inhabitants in sentimental concord with those of other
nations. For Arinos, Diadorim's death and the "arquitetura do
Planalto" form the interchangeable parts of a symbolic puzzle that
superimpose themselves interminably over the image of Brazil in
order to elévate the nation to universal glory.

Taking place just one day after Rosa's death and four days after
his acceptance into the ABL, Austregésilo de Athayde's speech suggests
that the actual death of Guimarães Rosa is no less unificatory than
that of Diadorim. The symbolism of Athayde's "Discurso de adeus
a Guimarães Rosa" attributes transcendental power to the deceased
author through religious imagery.

IO] querido e breve companheiro, taumaturgo sertanejo,
senhor de invenções inauditas, profeta do mundo que se
desentranha, de culturas primitivas seculares, atrevido ban-
deirante de realidades ainda não sondadas, João Guimarães
Rosa! São incontáveis os serviços à tua pátria, cujo renome
e prestígio aumentaste entre as nações 1. . .]. (110)

By evoking the image of the prophet, Athayde transforms Guimarães
Rosa into a médium for the expression of a "divine" national will and
destiny, The "prophet" Guimarães Rosa, instead of being in the ser-
vice of God, is in the service of Brazil. Thus, something akin to Walt
Whitman's conception of the poet-prophet,'* Athayde's representation

The Hour and Turn ofjoão Guimarães Rosa 81

of Guimarães Rosa as one that has borne "incontáveis [. . .] serviços
a tua pátria" takes on monumental significance.

In order to envision national "realidades ainda não sondadas,"
Athayde constructs for the ABL a mythical image of Rosa connected
with the nation's dominant religious discourses. This relationship
between the religious and the literary evokes a Romantic image of
"artists as special people and art as sacred" (Kernan 27). In Brazil,
imagining death through "símbolos de imortalidade" associated with
mythical-religious power and authority, such as "figuras de dragões,
leões, anjos, corujas, folhas de palmeira ou de louro, santos, da
própria Virgem, do próprio Cristo" has iong accompanied the memo-
rial traditions of the elite (Freyre xl). As this politics of death manifests
itself in the arena of national literature, Guimarães Rosa, as a writer,
becomes an eternal symbol of what it means to be Brazil(ian).

Joaquim Nabuco, in his "Discurso de Posse" at the ABL's inaugu-
ral session on the 20th of July, 1897, declared:

As Academias, como tantas outras coisas, precisam de
antiguidade. Uma Academia nova é como uma religião sem
mistérios: falta-lhe solenidade. A nossa principal função
não poderá ser preenchida senão muito tempo depois de
nós, na terceira ou quarta dinastia dos nossos sucessores,
(par. 8)

The discursive space created by Guimarães Rosa's death provides
Athayde with a singular occasion in which he might reemphasize
the ABL's "mistérios." By Athayde articulating Guimarães Rosa as a
prophet of the "pátria, cujo renome e prestígio aumentaste entre as
nações" (110), Rosa's transformation is constructed at a temporal
and cultural crossroads of Brazilian history. A pre-colonial history
of "culturas primitivas seculares" and a colonial history of "ban-
deirantes" converge with the nation's future "realidades ainda não
sondadas" over a solemn, yet still fatidic, authorial and, above ali,
national body (110).

Another striking example of a connection with the religious is
Athayde's peroration that explicitly appendages itself to the Bible as
it contemplates Guimarães Rosa's newfound "eternal" glory:

82 Joshua Alma Enslen

E urna das tuas páginas flui a naturalidade desta reflexão
consentânea com a sabedoria de Eclesiastes: "As coisas
por si mesmas, por si, escolhem de suceder ou não, no
prosseguir.""' A escolha de suceder foi feita, feita por si
mesma, nos desígnios da divina Graça, a qual te recobre
com a Sua luz, neste derradeiro passo da eternidade que
começa. Neste nosso adeus há muito de saudade, consider-
ação e amor, mas o seu profundo sentido é o do testemunho
unânime do País [. . .]. (111)

The appearance of three words in this passage that begin with the
majuscule — "Graça," "Sua," and "País" — open the way for furthering
a religious connection. The appearance of the first two — "Graça" and
"Sua" — represents a rypical expression of reverence for God. Yet, by
allocating the majuscule also to the word "País," Athayde shows that
it is not only deity that is revered. The speech places Brazil on the same
levei as the "divina Graça." Thus, in like manner to Guimarães Rosa's
sanctification as a prophet, this deified designation of the "País," as it
stands personified "[. . .] reclinado [. . .] sobre as aparências humanas
[de Guimarães Rosa]" (111), reflects the religiosity through which an
intellectual institution whose maxim reads "ad immortalitatem" is obli-
gated to navigate in order to shore up its national designs. Thus, what is
of note here is not the religiosity proper of Brazil or Brazilians, but rather
the speech's manipulation of religious and historical symbols to give
"eternal" national relevance to Guimarães Rosa's writing and death.

The ambivalence between "Graça" and "País" is further compli-
cated in its relationship to the memorialized writer by such slippery
and highly subjective phrases as "claridade do teu espírito," "passo
da eternidade," "admiração universal," and especially "[a] alvorada
de tua bem-aventurança" (111). But, those who write the nation must
articúlate such ambiguities in an effort to guarantee a mythical render-
ing or, as Guimarães Rosa suggests, a rendering that is "entrançado
e uno." Even Guimarães Rosa, in his own speech, reflected on this
relationship between "Graça" and "País." Quoting Arthur da Silva
Bernardes, Rosa self-referentially proclaims: "O fim do homem é
Deus, para o qual devemos, preferentemente, viver. Eu, porém, vivi
mais para a Pátria, esquecendo-me d' Ele" (83).^

In these three speeches, dissolution by death is no less an option
for the culturally enfranchised members of the ABL than it is for the

The Hour and Turn ofjoão Guimarães Rosa 83

nation. Thus, in order for the nation's scholarly dead to be transfig-
ured into national symbols, these discourses must impose upon their
bodies metaphysical attributes of religious, topographic and literary
entities for which death poses no threat of dissolution. In Guimarães
Rosa's speech, this turn to the metaphysical is constructed by using
toponyms as substitutes for proper names. In this way, Guimarães
Rosa creares an infrangibie metonymy between the writer and the
nation, simultaneously erasing the limits of the writer's mortality and
the nation's finitude, Similarly, for Arinos, Diadorim's death becomes
a means to universally glorify Guimarães Rosa's writing, arguing that
it is a symbol of the solidarity of ali humankind. In the last speech,
Athayde connects Guimarães Rosa to religious imagery by conse-
crating him as a transfigured mythical prophet. As a prophet for the
nation, Athayde expresses the author's "absolute" greatness while also
embodying the infinite greatness of Brazil, depicted as a personified
being mourning the loss of one of its most celebrated authors.

Years before the founding of the ABL, Machado de Assis had
already contemplated the importance of writing in sustaining a national
project when in "Instinto de Nacionalidade" he suggested how, through
criticism, Brazilian literature "[. . .] se desenvolva e caminhe aos altos
destinos que a esperam" (804). Death is an important mechanism by
which the ABL has asserted the national importance of literature. Death
in the ABL transforms Guimarães Rosa and other writers into mythical
symbols capable of overtaking Machado's "altos destinos" while also
allowing for the creation of Nabuco's institutional "mistérios." In the
ABL, physical death enriches the writer's social cachet and provokes the
cultural maelstrom by which the institution might emerge empowered
to articúlate the "solemnity" of its mission. Where the politicai borders
provide the blueprint, these speeches surrounding Rosa's induction into
"immortality" provide the suitable magma for expression. Indeed, at
the time of Guimarães Rosa's death, Afrânio Coutinho would propose
that, because of Guimarães Rosa: "O Brasil é realmente uma literatura
já hoje brasileira" (132).

The national project of the ABL, not limited only to this episode
involving Guimarães Rosa, is sustained by death because of the discur-
sive space it creares within the ABL's process of election. In particular,
these three ABL speeches set the nation into perpetuai motion as they
write and rewrite Brazil's eternal rejuvenation through symbolic dis-
course and death.

84 Joshua Alma Enslen

Notes

1. All antiquated Portuguesa orthography has been modernized.

2. Although this article deals primarily with the articulation of death
as it proposes the ABL's imagined infiniteness as a parallel with that of the
nation, many of the ideas herein on the role of writing in constructing an
"eternal" nation are indebted to Nation and Narration (edited by Homi K.
Bhabha) as well as Benedict Anderson's Imagined Communities.

3. Emphasis appears in the original.

4. Speaking of the religiosity of writing in association with "the advent
of America, and of science and democracy," Whitman writes: "Only the
priests and poets of the modern, at least as exalted as any in the past, fully
absorbing and appreciating the results of the past, in the commonality of all
humanity [. . .] recast the oíd metal, the already achieved material, into and
through new moulds, current forms" (1061). English orthography has been
modernized.

5. Athayde is quoting from Guimarães Rosa's short story "No
prosseguir" found in Tutaméia: terceiras estarias: "As coisas, mesmas, por
si, escolhem de suceder ou não, no prosseguir" (99).

6. The italics appear in the original.

Works Cited

Anderson, Benedict. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and

Spread of Nationalism. London & NY: Verso, 1991.
Athayde, Austregésilo de. "Discurso de adeus." Em memoria de João

Guimarães Rosa. Rio de Janeiro: Editora José Olympio, 1968: 107-112.
Bhabha, Homi K. "Introduction: Narrating the Nation." Nation and Narration.

Ed. Homi K. Bhabha. New York: Routledge and Keegan Paul, 1990: 1-7.
Butler, Judith. "Performative Acts and Gender Constitution: An Essay in

Phenomenology and Feminist Theory." Theatre Journal 40/4 (1988):

519-531.
Coutinho, Afrânio, et al. "Sessão de saudade dedicada à memoria de João

Guimarães Rosa." Em memoria de João Guimarães Rosa. Rio de Janeiro:

Editora José Olympio, 1968: 115-155.
Derrida, Jacques. Aporias. Eds. Werner Hamacher and David E. Wellbery.

Trans. Thomas Dutoit. Stanford: Stanford UP, 1993.
Freyre, Gilberto. Sobrados e mucambos. Rio de Janeiro: Editora José

Olympio, 1961.
Guimarães Rosa, João. "A hora e a vez de Augusto Matraga." Sagarana. Rio

de Janeiro: Nova Fronteira, 2001: 363-413.

The Hour and Turn ofjoão Guimarães Rosa 85

— . Grande sertão: veredas. Rio de Janeiro: Editora José Olympio,
1972.
— . "O verbo & o logos: discurso de posse." Em Memória de João

Guimarães Rosa. Rio de Janeiro: Editora José Olympio, 1968: 55-88.
'No prosseguir." Tutaméia: terceiras estarias. Rio de Janeiro: Editora

José Olympio: 97-100.
Henriques, Cláudio Cezar. "Entrelinhas." Atas da Academia Brasileira de

Letras: Presidência de Machado de Assis (1896-1908). Ed. Cláudio Cezar

Henriques. Rio de Janeiro: Academia Brasileira de Letras, 2001: 3-25.
Kernan, Alvin. The Death of Liter ature. New Haven: Yale UP, 1990.
Machado de Assis, Joaquim Maria. "Instinto de nacionalidade." Obra

completa, Vol III. Ed. Afrânio Coutinho. Rio de Janeiro: Editora José

Aguilar Ltda., 1962: 801-809.
. "Na Academia Brasileira: discurso inaugural." Obra Completa, Vol

III. Ed. Afrânio Coutinho. Rio de Janeiro: Editora José Aguilar Ltda,

1962: 926.
Melo Franco, Afonso Arinos de. "O verbo & o logos: discurso de recepção."

Em memória de João Guimarães Rosa. Rio de Janeiro: Editora José

Olympio, 1968: 89-106.
Montello, Josué. "O Presidente Machado de Assis nos papéis e relíquias da

Academia Brasileira de Letras." Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio Editora,

1986.
Murdock, Maureen. Unreliable Truth: On Memoir and Memory. New York:

Seal Press, 2003.
Nabuco, Joaquim. "Discurso de posse." Joaquim Nabuco. Academia

Brasileira de Letras. 6 October 2007. < http://www.academia.org.br/>
Needell, Jeffrey D. A Tropical Belle Epoque; Elite Culture and Society in

Turn-of-the-Century Rio de Janeiro. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1987.
Whitman, Walt. "Darwinism-(then Furthermore)." Complete Poetry and

Collected Prose: Leaves of Grass (1855), Leaves of Grass (1891-92),

Complete Prose Works (1892), Supplementary Prose. NY: The Library

of America, 1982: 1060-1061.

Forms of Memory in Recent Fictional
Narrativas from Uruguay: Summoning
the Dictatorship in "Mnemonic
Interventions"

Alexandra Falek
New York University

How do contemporary writers in Uruguay evoke the civil-military
dictatorship (1973-85) in recent fictional narratives? What do these
narratives indicate about the workings of memory in post-dictatorship
society? This article considers these questions by analyzing three recent
fictional narratives from one post-authoritarian country in which there
are ongoing legal, politicai, and social debates about memory and
cultural expression with regard to the dictatorship period. The article
contributes a reflection on remembrance and recognition of the dic-
tatorship "past" in narratives that make use of a mnemonic practice:
a citation or summoning of the dictatorship that I cali a "mnemonic
intervention." In this way, the narratives of the three writers I have
chosen make some aspect of the dictatorship present in a specific
form of memory. The narratives studied here bring together concerns
that stretch from Uruguay during the dictatorship into the present,
The presence of the interventions in recent Uruguayan narratives is
significam in a country in which the dictatorship, and its unresolved
issues, are still at the forefront of the politicai and social consciousness
of many citizens.

This article will discuss the play Malezas (2006) by Maria PoUak,
and the short stories, "El diecinueve" (1999) by Mario Benedetti, and
"La abeja sobre el pétalo" (2003) by Hugo Fontana. These narratives
are distinct from others about the dictatorship in that they neither total-
ize nor directly represent the dictatorship; nor do they overtly nárrate
violence, fear and other aspects of repression.' Rather than describing
or representing the dictatorship in a realistic and documentary manner,
these fictional works summon the period with a mnemonic interven-
tion that directly cites the dictatorship. These citations conjure the

86 MESTER, VOL. XXXVl (2007)

Forms o f Memory in Recent Fictional Narratives from Uruguay 87

dictatorship by naming some aspect of the period in a direct reference,
exposing it, making it visible. The presence and function of the mne-
monic interventions illuminate continuities between the dictatorship and
the present. In post-dictatorship Uruguay, closure of the events of the
dictatorship has not yet been possible. While some individuais, who are
responsible for politicai violence, repression, and human rights abuses,
have been tried and convicted, criticai Information about the military
forces' activities during the dictatorship has not yet been disclosed.^

In March 1985, Julio María Sanguinetti became president, just
one year after he obtained the majority nomination for the democratic
election. With his new administration, he established an official dis-
course based on denial and forgetting with regard to the immediate
past. The administration promoted an environment of amnesia, which
influenced citizens to "move forward." Eduardo Galeano commented
on the generalized fear and amnesia that characterized society just
after re-democratization in 1985:

El miedo de saber nos condena a la ignorancia; el miedo
de hacer nos reduce a la impotencia. La dictadura militar,
miedo de escuchar, miedo de decir, nos convirtió en
sordomudos. Ahora la democracia, que tiene miedo de
recordar, nos enferma de amnesia; pero no se necesita ser
Sigmund Freud para saber que no hay alfombra que pueda
ocultar la basura de la memoria. (98)

This fear of knowing, listening, and speaking had been rampant under
the repressive politics of the dictatorship years. In the newly established
democracy this fear was also present, as Galeano suggests above, most
evidently in relation to efforts by citizens, artists, and some politicai activ-
ist groups to openly talk about the dictatorship and to begin to demand
accountability regarding both detained and missing Uruguayans. Many
attempts to bring the dictatorship into public debate were doomed to
be "swept under the rug," as Galeano suggests above.

Meanwhile, as historian José Rilla notes, in the new democracy
in 1985 Uruguayans had many expectations regarding democratic life
and its possibilities:

Muchos incluso llegaron a pensar que con la vida
democrática se resolvían muchas cosas de Uruguay. Nunca

Alexandra Falek

como en 1984 tuvimos una especie de consenso tan fuerte
conforme al cual había que reponer la democracia y que
desde ella se podía sacar a Uruguay de la crisis. La democ-
racia fue respuesta [. . .] pero los problemas de la vida del
país están allí. (207)

Yet contrary to citizens' hopeful expectations, the reality of what
the newly established democracy could change was bleak. In August
1986, Sanguinetti and his administration drafted the amnesty law
that would exonérate military officers for their involvement with
the dictatorship regime. Four months later, in December 1986,
this amnesty law known as the Ley de Caducidad de la Pretensión
Punitiva del Estado — widely referred to as the Law of Impunity {Ley
de Caducidad) — conferred impunity to military officers implicated
in the dictatorship. The Armed Forces would be free from taking
ownership for its crimes. Today, the Law continues to protect them
from triáis and from having to acknowledge their crimes.^

Benedetti's story "El diecinueve" poignantly illuminates the impu-
nity of one former military officer and torturer who "meets" his victim
twenty years after the dictatorship and says to him: "No tengo que
dar explicaciones. Ni a usted ni a nadie" (51). After implementation
of the Law of Impunity, concerned citizens in social and politicai sec-
tors publicly denounced it, and established the National Commission
Pro Referendum {Comisión Nacional Pro Referendum) in January
1987."* Two years later, in April 1989, Uruguayans participated in
a national referendum in which they could vote either to annul the
Law, which would rescind the impunity granted to former repressors,
or to ratify it. The months leading up to the final vote were marked
by intense debates. Government officials encouraged ratification,
convincing Uruguayans that sustaining the Law was the "healthiest"
politicai strategy for the country and its citizens since it would allow
everyone to "move forward." The politicians in Sanguinetti 's admin-
istration insisted that the "moral well being" of the country depended
on refusing to dwell on the events of the dictatorship. They warned
citizens that voting to revoke the Law could result in the return to an
atmosphere of repression, violence, censorship, and fear. In this envi-
ronment laden with confusing messages, the majority of Uruguayans
voted for ratification, indefinitely extending the Law.^ This vote estab-
lished a legal way for the government to ensure amnesty for military

Fornis of Memory in Recent Fictional Narratives from Uruguay

officers and to strengthen the already pervasive amnesia, described
above by Galeano.

Today, almost twenty years since the referendum, former military
officials continue to deny responsibility and to withhold pertinent
information with respect to the dictatorship. Many others have died (by
natural death and/or suicide) Hterally taking with them key information
that could be used to indict former repressors and lócate the remains
of Uruguayans still missing since the dictatorship period.^ While the
number of Uruguayan citizens that disappeared and/or were murdered
without explanations during the dictatorship is notably less than in
neighboring countries under dictatorship such as Argentina and Chile,^
the impact of the disappearances in Uruguay has been just as signifi-
cant. Confidential information about what happened to these people
continues to distress the victims' friends, families, and communities.
The missing persons, or desaparecidos, are constantly remembered and
commemorated by Uruguayans who persist in their efforts to turn years
of denial into recognition. After carrying the burden of the dictatorship
for years, many citizens continue to demand accountability. One way of
doing this is to publicly remember the "presence" of the desaparecidos.
For example, each May 20^'' they are remembered in Montevideo in the
March of Silence. At this march, participants utter the words "Present,
always" 'Siempre presente') after the ñame of each desaparecido is read
aloud. In the gesture of remembering and evoking the desaparecidos,
citizens challenge the fact that those who are to blame for the disap-
pearances have not yet taken ownership of their actions.

The particular transitional politics in Uruguay marked by denial
and forgetting left countless issues unresolved — namely the lack of
accountability and the necessity to disclose relevant information —
issues that continue to foment anxieties about memory, knowledge,
and the events of the dictatorship. In this context, it may not be
surprising that aspects of the dictatorship period continue to surface
in cultural production. In contemporary post-authoritarian societies
still marked by struggles for and against sustained discussions about
the authoritarian regimes — such as Argentina, Brazil, Chile, Paraguay,
and Uruguay in the Southern Cone región — fictional narratives that
summon the dictatorship constitute a criticai factor in the continued
shaping of cultural memory, as well as in the legal, politicai, and social
activity in these societies. This arricie deliberares one way that the
resurfacing of historical events occurs in fictional narratives published

90 Alexandra Falek

during the last eight years in Uruguay. Mnemonic interventions, as
a particular form of memory, provide an important way to engage
remnants of the past in the present. I have developed this concept of
"mnemonic interventions" as a way of naming a phenomenon that
may be found in a wide range of cultural production including film,
literature, theatre, and other visual arts, in Uruguay and in other post-
dictatorship societies. Let us consider the concept and significance of
a mnemonic intervention more closely.

I propose "mnemonic interventions" as an analytical tool for read-
ing certain narratives, in order to open them up to cultural analysis. I
contend that because mnemonic interventions can stimulate some levei of
response in readers, these readers can become aware of the importance
of these interventions and how they opérate in their country's cultural
memory. An understanding of the concept of mnemonic interventions
and the ways that they function in recent fictional narratives is crucial
for broadening the established spaces for memory and knowledge of the
period. The established spaces include the March of Silence, the contin-
ued publication of testimonial and scholarly narratives about the period,
popular music, and other cultural production that engages the dictator-
ship. Mnemonic interventions, like these other spaces for memory, have
a strong mnemonic utility for citizens that choose to engage them. The
steady expansión of these spaces is largely a function of a lingering crisis
of confidence in regard to citizens' needs for answers and their demands
for justice with respect to the dictatorship. Mnemonic interventions in
some recent cultural production contribute to the possibility of a more
complex understanding of the dictatorship.

A mnemonic intervention calis forth, or cites a "remain" from
the dictatorship. The English word "remain" comes from the Latin
"'remanere" from re- (expressing intensive force) and ''manere'" (to
stay).** To remain is "to continue to exist" and "to be left over after
other parts have been completed, used, or dealt with." A mnemonic
intervention in the narrative cites aspects of the dictatorship that "con-
tinue to exist," yet most of these aspects have not been "dealt with. "A
mnemonic intervention draws the reader's attention to the dictator-
ship, while simultaneously inviting the reader to consider remains of
the dictatorship still present in contemporary society. The continuity
that exists between the past and the present is inextricably linked to
the remains that continue to have an effect on contemporary Uruguay,
as historian Álvaro Rico suggests:

Fonns of Memory in Recent Fictional Narratives from Uruguay 91

[. . .] a pesar dei cambio de régimen, el autoritarismo
deja efectos, secuelas, herencias, traumatismos, cuentas
pendientes, que la institucionalidad democrática no solo
no resuelve plenamente sino que, por el contrario, silencia
y enmascara de muchas maneras, incorpora a su propia
estructura legal-institucional o disemina como relaciona-
mientos sociales, culturales y psicosociales cotidianos. El
golpe de Estado y la dictadura se vuelven así el presente de
la historia, el 'ahora' democrático. (223)

Rico articulates the way that certain "traces" of the dictatorship
continue to impact múltiple aspects of society.^ These traces include
worsening economic conditions, the extant Law of Impunity, the still
missing human remains of citizens that have neither been located ñor
identified by their surviving families, and the secretive and inaccessible
official archives related to the dictatorship. In the narratives studied
in this arricie, the traces of the dictatorship manifest themselves as
remains, as aspects of the dictatorship that have not yet been resolved.
PoUak, Benedetti, and Fontana inscribe these remains into their texts
by means of a summons: they evoice the dictatorship, instigating
remembrance as a narrative strategy akin to Andreas Huyssen's notion
that "the past is not simply there in memory, but it must be articuiated
to become memory" (2).

In some ways, citation is similar to representation as a strat-
egy that "instigates remembrance" as Huyssen suggests above, by
engaging and maintaining contact with the dictatorship period. Yet
conceptually, representation and citation are distinct and function
differently. A citation is unlike representation in that it is not a "repro-
duction in some manner."''^ In this way, a mnemonic intervention
does not symboiically or realistically represent (describe, nárrate, or
dramatize) events of the dictatorship. A citation emphasizes the idea
of a summons or a mention." A mnemonic intervention performs the
functions that the definition of summoning indicates: it "requires the
presence or attendance of" the dictatorship by mentioning it; it "calis
into existence" and "calis forth"'- traces of the period.

Though a mnemonic intervention may seem unimportant at
first, upon closer consideration, it may genérate further reflection
and awareness. Its presence in a narrative illustrates the possibility
for engaging the dictatorship without taking on the trauma model

92 Alexandra Falek

commonly used to approach literature and cultural production
related to the dictatorship and its repression. And its purpose is to cali
attention to the dictatorship, by naming it, contributing to a larger
mnemonic register of the dictatorship period. Especially today, when
younger Uruguayans come to learn about the dictatorship mostly
through mediated memories and mediated Information, mnemonic
interventions are a narrative concept that presents a way into remem-
brance, acknowledgement, and awareness. Perhaps they may also
provide stimulation for politicai or social action with regard to the
many unsettled matters of the dictatorship period.

Pollak's Malezas and Benedetti's "El diecinueve" exemplify a
mnemonic intervention that takes the form of a ghost. Each narrative
evokes a desaparecido who makes his/her absence present to those
who were sure they would never see or talk to the dead. Each desa-
parecido makes a spectral appearance that reminds others of his/her
absence. This appearance reminds others that nobody has taken own-
ership for his/her disappearance. Cultural Studies scholar Jo Labanyi
draws from Derrida in her discussion of ghosts in post-Franco films
and novéis from Spain. She observes that ghosts act "as the traces
of those who have not been allowed to leave a trace (Derrida's for-
mulation), and are by definition the victims of history who return to
demand reparation" (66). While Labanyi's work examines the post-
Franco period in Spain — a different context from post-dictatorship
Uruguay — her discussion of ghosts in Spanish society after Franco is
relevant to this examination of ghosts and remains of the dictatorship
in contemporary Uruguayan society.

There are striking similarities between the transitions to democ-
racy in Spain and in Uruguay, such as the strong rhetoric of "moving
forward," and the continued absence of justice and recognition at
the State level. In both countries, the newly established democratic
administrations worked carefully to shirk responsibility for the crimes
of the authoritarian regime, insisting on denial and forgetting rather
than accountability and justice. Some of the effects that this had in
each country were a rapidly decreasing perception and confidence of
the country for many of its citizens, a heightened sense of a crisis of
competence at the state level, and a slow, but ongoing, emergence of
the unresolved issues in many realms of society.

Labanyi turns to Derrida's notion of haunting — "hauntology" —
used to explore the ghostly afterlife of Marxism after the death of

Forms of Memory in Recent Fictional Narratives from Uruguay 93

Marxism.'^ In Specters of Marx (1994), Derrida discusses the mul-
tiplicity and heterogeneity of what he calis the specters of Marxism
that continue to haunt Europe in the present. Labanyi draws from
Derrida's reading for her analysis of hauntology and ghosts in Spanish
society. And I turn to both of these criticai works to explore mne-
monic interventions in recent narratives, as they evoke a similar notion
of "ghostly afterlife." In the first two narratives studied, mnemonic
interventions can be observed in the form of a ghost that makes itself
present. The ghost's unsettling appearance functions as a persistent
reminder of the still-unresolved issues related to the dictatorship.
Labanyi writes, "Ghosts can be placated only if their presence is
recognized" (71). The specter in the narratives "appears" in order to
demand recognition and acceptance, making a space for itself in the
present. Let us first examine a scene from Maria PoUak's Malezas:

CLARA. Hoy encontré una foto donde estamos todas, no

sé exactamente de cuando es pero . . . ustedes no tenían ni

seis meses.

OFELIA. Entonces es del 73.

LEA. A ver . . . pah . . . que horrible . . . parecemos los

muppets . . . ¿quiénes nos sostienen.'

CLARA. Mostráme . . . somos Sofía y yo . . . qué caras de

susto . . .

[...1

SOFÍA. ¿Y ésta?

CLARA. No me digas que no reconoces a Azul . . .

SOFÍA. No, la verdad es que no me acordaba . . .

LEA. Azul . . . ¿quién es?

OFELIA. Con esta pasó algo raro.

CLARA. No es el momento de hablar de eso. (35-36)

In this scene, the women are gathered for the 80''' birthday party of
the family matriarch, Doña Felipa. Nobody has heard from Azul — the
figure in the photograph that Sofía does not recognize — since the day
she was kidnapped, thirty years ago. Sofía and Clara are Azul's first
cousins; Lea and Ofelia are second cousins, from the younger genera-
tion. While Ofelia knows that "something strange happened" to Azul,
Lea does not recognize her, as nobody in the family has ever spoken
about her. After this conversation. Azul, who has been standing next

94 Alexandra Falek

to her cousins (without their seeing or sensing her spectral presence),
stands off to the side of the stage and begins to recount the story of
what happened the night that the photograph was taken. Azul's cousin
Dulce — one of only three women at the party who can "see" and
"talk to" Azul — stands beside Azul, joining in with the other cousins
while each woman on stage takes a turn in narrating the events of
that night, each one recounting it from her point of view. That night
marked the beginning of many years of silence and detachment in the
family. The family would be forever distanced by what happened, by
Azul's disappearance, by Uncle Ricardo's involvement in her disap-
pearance, and by the repressive atmosphere that permeated society
over the next twelve years.

Azul's spectral appearance at the party is the first time that she has
"visited" her family since the night that she was kidnapped. Although
her family members have never spoken about her since her disap-
pearance, they have been affected by her absence, an uncomfortable
reality that lingers obstinately like the weeds {malezas) that grow in
Doña Felipa's garden. The night of the party Azul has "come back"
after thirty years "to do" something: to see her family and to demand
recognition of her family's role in her disappearance as well as their
silence about it. Derrida explains that a specter comes back "to do"
something: "The cadáver is perhaps not as dead, as simply dead as the
conjuration tries to delude us into believing. The one who disappears
appears still to be there, and his apparition is not nothing. It does not
do nothing" (97). Azul "personifies" this specter who has returned
"to do" something specific.

Of the three women who are aware of Azul's presence and can
"see" her — Dulce, Ducle's daughter Catalina, and Irma, the grand-
mother's unfriendly and straight-faced caretaker who has been part of
the family since the time that Azul and Dulce were young girls — it is
Irma who resists Azul the most. She knows specific details about what
happened the night that Azul was kidnapped, yet she has never shared
this with anybody in the family. As such, she is the first to "sense"
Azul's presence, and the one who most denies it. Catalina can "see"
Azul, yet she does not know her and therefore cannot "recognize"
her. Irma, however, does engage Azul in a conversation just before the
guests arrive. She seems nervous that Azul has appeared, telling her
that it is not in Azul's best interest that she has "come back." Azul
knows Irma well, and responds, sarcastically, that actually it is not in

Fornjs o f Memory in Recent Fictional Narratives from Uruguay 95

Irma's best interest that she has come: "No te conviene que esté aquí"
(11). After a few more words and the first guest's arrival, Irma warns
Azul not to enter the house. Irma strongly denies Azul's spectral pres-
ence, as she continues to deny history. She seems especially obstinate
in her denial of Uncle Ricardo's comphcity in Azul's disappearance,
and of her knowledge of this complicity.

It is not until the third scene that Dulce "sees" Azul. The two
cousins are in the backyard: Dulce has come to cut roses for her
grandmother. She is surprised to see Azul, yet accepts her immedi-
ately. Within seconds they are conversing as if they have been there
together forever, as if Azul had never become an unexplained absence.
Dulce confesses that fourteen years ago she found Azul's diary, and
that today she was going to reveal a "secret" to her cousins. She was
finally going to expose the fact that Uncle Ricardo was involved in
Azul's disappearance. She says to Azul, "Les voy a contar lo que dice
el diario. Al fin de cuentas son nuestras primas [. . .] nuestras amigas
[. . .] además, yo se los prometí" (31). Azul is quick to correct her,
remarking that they "were" friends and cousins, that things are dif-
ferent now after so many years of denial and forgetting. Dulce gives
her reasons for having taken so long to tell the cousins about the
diary and the family secrets: they never got together again after Azul's
disappearance, and so she had nobody to tell, and nobody to trust.
She had been afraid then, and that fear had never gone away: "[. . .]
sólo tenía miedo [. . .] miedo de tenerlo [. . .] miedo de mostrarlo [. . .]
miedo de no tenerlo" (33). In a later scene, Catalina finds the diary
and devours the pages of her aunt's reflections. When Irma sees that
Catalina has the diary, she demands that Catalina give it to her; she
recognizes the diary and know^s its contents. Catalina refuses: "No es
tuyo. Para qué lo queres? Para que no se sepan las verdades que están
escritas aquí [. . .] muchas verdades" (61). Catalina knows that the
"leyenda familiar" about Azul is marked more by lies than facts. Just
after this quarrel between Irma and Catalina, Azul makes an "appear-
ance" before Catalina. Yet Catalina has never met her and believes
that she is a friend of Irma's.

Some of the cousins claim not to remember Azul. Others, like
Ofelia and Lea, were very young when she disappeared. None of
them have acknowledged what happened to her. Dulce welcomes and
accepts her, recognizing her spectral presence. She is ready to talk
about what happened, ready to live with this ghost. Her acceptance

96 Alexandra Falek

is similar to Derrida's proposal to keep ghosts close, and allow them
to come back. He writes that "one must not chase away" or forget
what he calis "untimely specters" because forgetfulness, he writes,
"will engender new ghosts" (87). Irma, on the contrary, shuts Azul out
as something frightening, and tries to forget her. She cannot tolérate
Azul's spectral presence. For her, Azul is an obstínate memory that
continually resurfaces, a nuisance that will not go away. Irma opens
herself to Derrida's idea of the engendering of new ghosts: the more
she attempts to deny Azul's spectral presence by pushing her away,
the more forcefully Azul returns.

Like Azul, who is unrelenting, the weeds that Irma cannot elimínate
grow back every morning, a bit taller than the morning before. It is
worth noting that there is a particularly obstínate patch of weeds that
grows just above the pit where Azul's friend Roberto used to hide arms
during the dictatorship. Azul tells Catalina about Irma's futile struggle
to do away wíth the weeds: "Todas las noches corta las malezas [. . .]
y todas las mañanas las encuentra crecidas, para ella es un misterio"
(60). Like the weeds highlighted in the títle, Azul persistently leaves a
"trace" of herself: she makes room for herself in the present and per-
mits her cousins to have their space as well, with or without her, aware
of the fact that they may never ask more questions about her or their
family's involvement in her disappearance. Azul allows the living, her
family members, to have their space in the present. She does not insist,
and she does not make demands, as the ghost in Benedetti's story "El
diecinueve" does. Azul leaves her cousins "in peace," even though they
refuse to recognize their past. Yet she does not go away, but instead
makes a space for herself in the present too.

Malezas is one of the most recent — and one of the few — theatrical
performances written in Uruguay to evoke the dictatorship period
and its impacts on families, society and daily life, thirty years after
the return to democracy.^^ One possible reading posed by the play is
that it speaks to the unresolved issues related to the dictatorship that
continue to linger in contemporary society. It calis spectators' atten-
tion to the still-uncertain status of disappeared Uruguayans, and to
the continued denial and injustice with regards to the dictatorship.
Azul's spectral presence forces Irma to acknowledge the continuity
between the dictatorship and what Rico calis the democratic "now."
It forces Irma to recall the events of the past, to remember the night
of Azul's disappearance, and to recognize that her disappearance still

Forms o f Memory in Recent Fictional Narratives from Uruguay 97

has a significant impact on the family, despite a general desire to leave
the "past" behind.

Pollak's recent play is similar to Benedetti's story "El diecinueve"
in that it is a reminder and a commemoration of still-unaccounted-for
Uruguayans, and still-unrecognized crimes. Diecinueve (in "El diecin-
ueve") and Azul (in Malezas) are ghosts that have "come back" for
the first time after more than twenty years. Both narratives communi-
cate a critique of the still extant Law of Impunity. In both narratives,
a mnemonic intervention is present in the form of a ghost. Pollak and
Benedetti conjure specters from the dictatorship, situating the inter-
ventions in an environment of anxiety in the present. The specters
in both narratives have come back "to do" something: they desire
a space for themselves in the present and stress the impossibility of
bringing about a definitive "end" to the dictatorship. In order to carry
out these objectives, Diecinueve and Azul make a spectral appearance,
breaking through the surface of the narrative in a mnemonic interven-
tion, demanding acknowledgement from those they have come to visit
and addressing the unfinished business.

In Benedetti's story, Diecinueve is the specter of a desaparecido
who, like Azul, performs the above-discussed functions of a citation:
he "requires the presence" of the dictatorship, directly mentioning it,
"calling it into existence," and "calling forth" himself as an absent
person. "El diecinueve" imparts awareness of a particular aspect of
the dictatorship, drawing the reader's attention to the trans-national
collaboration between dictatorial regimes — Plan Condor — in the
Southern Cone región. It tells the story of Farias, a Uruguayan military
officer, torturer and death flight operator during the dictatorship, and
Diecinueve, an Argentine citizen and supposed "subversive" militant
during the same period. Farias and Diecinueve have a face-to-face
encounter at Farías's home, where he has been living "in peace"
despite the crimes he committed years before. Diecinueve does not
have a proper name other than the number assigned to him before
he was thrown to his death from a plane — like many Argentine
and Uruguayan citizens during the dictatorships — into the Rio de
la Plata, the river that forms part of the border between Argentina
and Uruguay.

Farias desperately wants to believe that Diecinueve is just a ghost
in his imagination, a ghost that has appeared to cause trouble, and
therefore must be avoided and denied. However, Diecinueve insists

98 Alexandra Falek

that he is not a ghost, and that against ali odds, he survived the fali
from the plane that was meant to kill him. His appearance, breaking
the surface of Farías's present, demands acknowledgement. His pres-
ence guarantees that Farias will remember Diecinueve and ali of his
other victims "que aún no contrajeron el vicio de resucitar" (50) as
Diecinueve sarcastically says to Farias. Diecinueve wanders into the
narrative and into the life of his former torturer. He has appeared
in order "to do" something: he wants Farias to "see" him and to
remember him. Diecinueve has come back to remind Farias that he is
still "there" and that Farias must accept him and admit his presence:
"Sólo queria que me viera," (50) he says to Farias. He also wants
Farias's family to "see" him. Diecinueve promises to not tell them
who he "really" is, yet he knows that their "seeing" him will further
confirm the "reality" of his presence. Farias tries to keep his calm
and "invites" Diecinueve into his house, introducing him as a friend.
Meanwhile Farias continues to convince himself that Diecinueve is just
a ghost. Did he really not drown in the ri ver with the others? "Esto no
puede ser," thinks Farias (50), his shock evident as he introduces this
ghost "friend" from his dark past to his wife and children.

Shortly after, Farias escorts Diecinueve to the front gate and breaks
into tears, clearly shaken by his unexpected "visitor." Suddenly he stops
sobbing, as if attempting to disallow this moment. He shouts, "¡Sos
un fantasma! ¡Un fantasma! ¡Eso es lo que sos!" (53). But these words
do not make Diecinueve go away. Instead he answers: "Por supuesto
muchacho" (now putting aside any hint of respect by using the informal
tú form), "Soy un fantasma. Al fin me has convencido. Ahora limpiáte
los mocos y anda a llorar en el hombro de tu mujercita. Pero a ella no le
digas que soy un fantasma, porque no te lo va a creer" (53). Now that
Farias's wife has also "seen" Diecinueve, Farias can no longer believe
ñor deny Diecinueve as a ghost, he will have to respond to Diecinueve
and to what Derrida describes as a ghost's "demands that one take its
times and its history into considera tion" (101). Farias cannot compre-
hend Diecinueve's appearance: he is from "the past" and should not
have a space in the present; he should not be "allowed" to come back.
Yet insisting on his presence is the work that Diecinueve has come to
do. By making a space for himself in the present, he forces Farias to
remember, and to "deal with" him again.

After so many years of denial and silence. Farias is deeply unsettled
by Diecinueve's sudden "appearance." Diecinueve's visit — distressing

Forms of Memory in Recent Fictional Narratives from Uruguay 99

for Farias — summons the dictatorship period in the present, making
it "visible" for Farias. Diecinueve's presence reminds Farias of his still
denied responsibility for past crimes; it interrupts Farías's pleasant and
unremorseful life of contemptible impunity. Yet, as Derrida writes,
"the more life there is, the graver the specter of the other becomes,
the heavier its imposition. And the more the living have to answer for
it" (109). Diecinueve's appearance, or "imposition" as Derrida states,
is both "grave" and "heavy" for Farias. What he most loathes is
Diecinueve's demand that he "answer" for his past crimes. Diecinueve
expects acknowledgement from Farias, who now has to "answer for the
dead, to respond to the dead," as Derrida writes. Diecinueve is an inter-
ruption in Farías's life. Like Azul in Malezas, Diecinueve is a specter that
summons the dictatorship, stimulating remembrance and acknowledge-
ment as a remain that persists in being. Like Irma in Malezas, Farias
rejects Diecinueve, trying to absolutely avoid and to refuse this ghost
who has wandered back into his life. After so many years of impunity,
forgetfulness and denial. Farias, like Irma in Malezas, has opened
himself to Derrida's idea of "engendering new ghosts" (87). The more
Farias tries to deny Diecinueve by pushing him away, the more likely
other specters from his dark past will also make themselves present.

As we have seen, a mnemonic intervention can take the form of
a specter — as in Malezas and "El diecinueve" — that functions as a
trigger, making what remains of the dictatorship visible for both pro-
tagonists in the narrative and for readers. An intervention can also
take the form of a direct reference to some aspect of the dictatorship —
a quick and direct summons of a name, place, date, or other detail
unambiguously linked to the period — as illustrated in Fontana's short
story "La abeja sobre el pétalo."

In the first pages of this story, a supposedly "objective" nar-
rator directs the reader's attention toward Miguel, descriptions of
his small town, and its inhabitants. He does not name "exciting"
things. Instead, he narrares the predictable characteristics that are
the lifeline of the town, such as the weekly dances in the main plaza.
Four pages into the story, Miguel says, "Cualquiera hubiera dicho
que los bailes de la plaza no se iban a terminar nunca, pero nunca
es un adverbio de tiempo y el tiempo es equívoco" (54). By using
the imperfect, "no se iban," with the infinitive, "a terminar," Miguel
insinuates the probability of a future action, emphasizing that at
one time nobody in town thought that anything could disrupt the

100 Alexandra Falek

regularity of these dances. By using this grammatical construction, he
intimates that the dances are indeed about to come to an end. Even
this seemingly unchangeable weekly dance was about to undergo a
major transformation in ways that nobody could have expected. He
remembers a particular dance: "Un domingo de diciembre de 1971,
algunas semanas después de que el presidente Jorge Pacheco Areco
pasara por el pueblo en plena campaña electoral, hubo un baile orga-
nizado por un grupo de jóvenes que se reunían semanalmente en el
salón parroquial" (54). Miguel's memory of this dance conjures up
a specific event that took place on a particular Sunday in 1971.

His summons of this dance is significant for three reasons. First,
it was the last dance that was held in town before the Golpe in 1973.
Second, the dance took place after Pacheco Areco had been to town
at the height of his electoral campaign. Readers may recognize the
ñame Pacheco Areco, a household ñame during the years leading
up to the dictatorship." Miguel then describes the delightful envi-
ronment of the dance: the music, the musicians, and the foxtrot,
two-step, waltzes, and slow songs that the couples danced. These
details establish both the familiarity and the importance of the
dances. Finally, he ñames a third matter related to the dance, the
reference point in his memory to a major disruption in his personal
life: it was just before or perhaps right after that dance that the hor-
rifying rumor — that his parents were siblings — began to spread. He
does not remember exactly when the rumor began, but his memory
of this shocking rumor, an abrupt change in his previously unevent-
ful life, is unmistakably linked to this last dance before the Golpe.

His memories of this dance function as a catalyst for recollecting
other drastic events that occur in the town during this same period.
Many things begin to change just after the dance: "Tuvieron lugar
otros hechos, acaso mínimos, insignificantes, que mi memoria no ha
retenido por debilidad o desidia" (56). Miguel narrares three events
that he remembers from this turbulent period, two of which are dis-
cussed here. As each one transpires, news and rumors about them
travei quickly from one neighbor to the next. The town's inhabitants
seem unprepared to react or respond to these unprecedented events.
As a result, a general environment of fear, confusión, and widely
spread rumors settles into daily life. Each event that Miguel narrates is
a mnemonic intervention in that it cites a specific aspect of the chang-
ing social environment before and during the dictatorship.

Fornis o f Memory in Recent Fictional Narratives from Uruguay 101

The first event is the day that Eloísa gives birth to a baby with two
heads. This shocks the town for two reasons. First, everybody thought
that Eloísa, who had moved to the town in her forties, was "destinada
a la más injusta soltería" (56); nobody ever expected that she would
have a baby. Second, the town's inhabitants have never witnessed or
heard of a birth of such an anomalous creature. The rumors begin to
fly: "La noticia corrió como reguero de pólvora," says Miguel, and
this monstrous birth shocks the town, dominating ali conversations:
"La pobre Eloísa tuvo un niño con dos cabezas fue lo único que se
escuchó por días y días en todos lugares del pueblo" (56). People stop
in the middle of the street to talk about what has happened, just to
say it out loud. Some people even empathize with Eloísa's bad luck:
"aquella desdichada mujer no se merecía semejante suerte" (57). But
in the end, Miguel remembers, everybody was overtaken by so much
fear that there was little space to have compassion for Eloísa. The
town's inhabitants had to take care of themselves and their families
first. They had to contain their own fears and circumstances, afraid
to talk to the neighbors yet desperate to understand what was occur-
ring in their town.

Miguel transmits this atmosphere of disbelief, confusión and fear
by means of recounting this event that so radically upset Ufe in this
small town. Not only is this birth upsetting to Eloísa, her neighbors,
and the rest of the town's inhabitants, but it even manages to upset
the normal activity within the church. When Eloísa decides that she
wants to baptize the baby, the priest is not sure whether he must
perform the baptism once or twice. After all, the baby has two heads.
He must ask for advice from the archbishop, who tells him to consult
a book published in Palermo in 1745, hoping to clarify the proce-
dures for such an exceptional circumstance. But the baby dies before
there is time for even one baptism. The perplexity amongst the clergy
resembles the general puzzlement of the town's inhabitants. And not
only does this event bewilder the town's inhabitants and the church,
but journalists also come from the capital city to report on the birth
of Eloísa's two-headed baby. Even Pipo Mancera, a weil-known televi-
sión broadcaster at the time, sends telegrams from Buenos Aires asking
permission to come with his team to shoot for the next edition of
Sábados Circulares, a popular televisión program aired on Saturdays.
Everybody seems intrigued yet disgusted. While they want to get
cióse and to understand what has happened, they are uncomfortable

102 Alexandra Falek

with the strangeness of the situation. Unusual events have begun to
transpire in this quiet and-uneventful-place, forever agitating the calm
tediousness that previously characterized life in this town.

Two weeks after Eloisa gives birth to her monstrous baby, Maria
Elvira dehvers Siamese twins. Like Miguel's memory of the impact of
the two-headed baby, this memory conjures up a specific event that
takes place after the last dance. The memory corresponds to another
phenomenal occurrence. Maria Elvira's Siamese twins are unlike ali
others: one is born sitting right on top of the other. Like Eloísa's two-
headed baby, Maria Elvira's bables do not survive very long. Both
mothers must bury their babies within the first month of life. Miguel
refers to the birth of the Siamese twins as a "live metaphor" of the
times: "Una metáfora viva, casi una denuncia para tiempos convul-
sos en los que la gente iba presa y era torturada hasta la muerte por
cualquier irreverencia" (57). Here Miguel cites the dictatorship by
both criticizing and naming the imprisonment and torture carried out
by the military. This second unparalleled occurrence that has shocked
his town again echoes the repressive and violent atmosphere of the
country under dictatorship. People in town are surprised to learn
about these perplexing events (Eloísa's two-headed son and Maria
Elvira's twins) just as Uruguayan citizens are surprised to learn about
the imprisonment, torture, disappearance, and death organized by the
military regime. As noted earlier, the news of the Siamese twins, like
ali news during this period: "corrió como reguero de pólvora" (58).
Miguel repeats this comment frequently, and in each repetition, the
image of the quickly spreading rumors gains intensity.

There are so many rumors about the grotesque births in this town
that the news eventually reaches the capital city: "[. . .] llegaron al
despacho del presidente Juan María Bordaberry, el sucesor de Jorge
Pacheco Areco" (58). Again, Miguel directly cites the dictatorship,
here by naming Bordaberry, who executed the Golpe in 1973, and
again. Pacheco Areco. One of Bordaberry 's advisors encourages
him to "make an appearance" in this previously uneventful town,
as the situation in the country is rapidly worsening due to "la crisis
institucional, pedidos de renuncia, subversión, aumento de pobreza,
prolegómenos del golpe de Estado" (58). Miguel's memory of María
Elvira's twins — and all of the memories that he conjures up related to
this turbulent period — corresponds to the rapidly deteriorating social
and politicai situation in his town and in his country. Up to this point.

Forms of Memory in Recent Fictional Narratives from Uruguay 103

he has evoked numerous aspects of the dictatorship without describing
or representing it reaUstically. He summons the dictatorship, names
the problems, and then continues where he had left off.

He moves on to nárrate the third incident that categorically shakes
his town: the day that the recently arrived soldiers run over a pig that
has the face of a httle girl. He cites the dictatorship by naming the
new and now indefinite presence of the soldiers in town, their inexpH-
cable actions, and the seemingly uncontroUable freedom with which
they carry out their "business." And then he explains that what carne
next: "llegó el olvido" (59). On a literal levei it is not hard to imagine
how these events have both paralyzed and disturbed the town. The
oblivion that Miguel names also refers to the denial and forgetting,
or amnesia, so actively encouraged by Sanguinetti's government just
after re-democratization, which intended to move the country forward
after so many years of violence and repression.

For Miguel and the other astounded inhabitants in town, the
period during which these unprecedented events take place seems end-
less. And then finally, in one more unexpected turn in the narrative,
Miguel informs readers of his complicity in the bizarre events. Nobody
had ever suspected that Miguel — or anybody in particular — would
take ownership for these occurrences that so drastically disturbed
the town. Miguel has kept silent for ten years, never once admitting
responsibiiity or disclosing information with respect to the events. He
has refused to recognize his involvement, living unbothered amongst
his neighbors. Rather than publicly acknowledging responsibiiity,
Miguel "cundió el silencio durante años" (59). His silence echoes
the prolonged silence of former repressors and coUaborators of the
dictatorship in Uruguay.

What might we think about Fontana's fascination with physical
defects and "monstrous" deformities in the story? Not only do these
peculiar creatures have physical defects, they ali die prematurely.
We can read the physical defects as a metaphor for the dangers and
social crisis brought on by the state imposed by violence and repres-
sion. The dictatorship regime caused distortions and deformities,
among citizens, among families, among communities, and within
the nation as a whole. Momentous changes have profoundly and
permanently shocked Miguel's small town, greatly disrupting its
routine activities and social structures. The uncanny events do not
reproduce the dictatorship period, yet they directly cite it, as with

104 Alexandra Falek

Miguel's naming of Bordaberry and Pacheco Areco. While some read-
ers may not recognize the allegory of the aspects of the dictatorship
and the transition, readers from Uruguay will be aware of this impHcit
association made identifiable by Fontana. The story has its strongest
impact by citing the dictatorship in mnemonic interventions, that is,
by making aspects, memories, and information of the dictatorship
present and "visible."

Malezas, "El diecinueve," and "La abeja sobre el pétalo" illus-
trate the shifts in form, perspective, and content of literary narratives
that engage the dictatorship since re-democratization. Many early
post-dictatorship narratives made use of the explicit mode of direct
representation by realistically describing the everyday fear, loss,
violence, and repression common during the dictatorship.'^ Like
other cultural works, literary narratives will continue to evolve as
new politicai and legal decisions take effect in Uruguay, and as the
disclosure of information regarding the dictatorship continues.'^
These three recent narratives in which readers can observe mnemonic
interventions contribute to an ongoing insistence on disclosure and
investigation. For Uruguayans that do not have personal memories
of the dictatorship and that learn about this period through mediated
information, fictional narratives that cite the dictatorship by means
of mnemonic interventions provide an accessible space for memory
and awareness. This is not to say that the interventions will provide
readers with personal memories if they do not already have them, as
this is an impossible endeavor. Rather, the interventions contribute to
a mnemonic register, to an evolving cultural memory, by imparting
information, awareness, and fictionalized memories in the narratives.
Mnemonic interventions bring readers into direct contact with the
dictatorship. Perhaps readers of these narratives do not expect to
come upon this kind of reference, as they might expect in a testimonial
narra tive. Perhaps readers may not know what "to do" with this refer-
ence, or mnemonic intervention, should they decide "to do" anything
with it at ali. The ways that readers respond to these narratives will
vary according to their relationship to the dictatorship, and they will
also have important implications for how they think about the dicta-
torship in the present, a constantly evolving process.

Since the return to democracy in Uruguay, there has been an ongo-
ing debate regarding the ways that citizens remember and discuss the
dictatorship in the public sphere. Some people concur with the need

Forms o f Memory in Recent Fictional Narratives from Uruguay 105

for continued debates and inquiries about the dictatorship. They seek
to maintain remembrance and awareness of the period, demanding the
disclosure of classified information, They argue that it is not yet pos-
sible to relégate the dictatorship to the past (in the sense of Derrida's
notion of hauntology as the past that is not and yet is there). Others
are resolute in their appeals to leave discussions about the dictator-
ship behind. This polarization is especially relevant among younger
Uruguayans born in the aftermath of the dictatorship, some of whom
know httle about this period. The narratives studied have a mnemonic
utihty: we can consider their social value in the ways that they provide
a significant source of cultural memory. What is important is the pres-
ence of the mnemonic interventions in the narratives, as they offer a
space for readers to engage, on some levei, the dictatorship and its
criticai presence in contemporary life.

Notes

1. Many of the first post-dictatorship works published in the late
1980s and during the 1990s were based on the personal testimonies of first
hand and secondary accounts of torture, and detention. I include only a
few here: Fernando Butazzoni, El tigre y la nieve (Barcelona: Virus, 1986);
Carlos Martínez Moreno, El color que el infierno me escondiera (México:
Nueva Imagen, 1981); Mauricio Rosencof, Conversaciones con la alpargata
(Montevideo: Arca, 1985); Mauricio Rosencof and Fernández Huidobro,
Memorias de Calabazo (Montevideo: Tae, 1987).

2. Former dictator Juan María Bordaberr)' and his chancellor Juan Carlos
Blanco were triad and imprisoned in 2006, finally convicted for the deaths of
politicians Zelmar Michelini and Héctor Gutiérrez Ruiz; as well as former
Tupamaros, Rosario Barredo and William Whitelaw, who were all killed in
Buenos Aires as part of Plan Condor. The Tupamaros [Tupamaro National
Liberation Movement] was a guerilla organization in Uruguay in the late
1960s. Bordaberry served a short prison sentence (seventy-two days) begin-
ning in November 2006, in Central Prison No. 10 in Montevideo, before he
was permitted to move to his son's property in Carrasco (one of Montevideo's
wealthiest suburbs) due to poor health conditions. Prior to this last conviction,
eight former military and pólice officers active during the dictatorship were
prosecuted in September 2005, and related to the disappearance of Adalberto
Soba, another Uruguayan who was "disappeared" in Buenos Aires in 1976.

3. Under Arricie 4 of the Law of Impunity, investigating what happened
to detained and disappeared Uruguayans in Argentina is allowed. Although it

106 Alexandra Falek

is only since Tabaré Vasquez announced in 2005 that he intended to enforce
Article 4 that these investigations have been under way. To date, this has
permitted the re-examination of the case of the assassinations of Michelini,
Gutiérrez Ruiz, and Soba in Buenos Aires. The incarceration of Bordaberry
and Blanco in 2006 is one example of this category of investigation.

4. They secured the 600,000 signatures required to cali a referendum
in which citizens would be able to vote to annul or to ratify the Law.

5. The referendum was ratified with the Yellow vote, indefinitely
preserving the Law of Impunity. There was an impressively high turnout
of voters (84.7 percent), yet 56.6 percent ratified the Law of Impunity. In
Montevideo, 56.6 percent of the voters voted Green against ratification, but
it was not enough to carry the rest of the country. Historian Benjamin Nahum
notes in Breve historia dei Uruguay independiente (Montevideo: Ediciones
de la Banda Oriental, 1999) that voters from the interior provinces — who
had suffered less repression during the dictatorship than those living in
Montevideo, and who greatly feared any kind of military backlash —
overwhelming voted Yellow. Luis Roniger discusses the details of the Law of
Impunity and the referendum in Luis Roniger, "Olvido, memoria colectiva
e identidades: Uruguay en el contexto del Cono Sur," La imposibilidad del
olvido: Recorridos de la memoria en Argentina, Chile y Uruguay, comp. Bruno
Gruppo and Patricia Flier (La Plata: Ediciones al Margen, 2001) 151-78.

6. For example, the remains of communist militant Ubagesner Chaves
Sosa were "found," identified, and buried in the Cemetery del Buceo in
Montevideo in 2006. It should not be overlooked that recent developments
and "new" Information such as the "discovery," or acknowledgment, of
human remains of a number of desaparecidos has caused a flurry of new
investigations of the dictatorship period. In March 2006 human rights
groups demanded the need to challenge the unconstitutionality of the Law
of Impunity. This claim of unconstitutionality argües that it violates the
republican principies of the separation of the three powers of State, giving
the government the power to make the decisions regarding judicial cases of
this nature. See ^'Debate de ciernes: interpretativa de la Ley de Caducidad o
su derogación,'" La República 1 March 2006.

7. Approximate numbers of disappeared persons suggest 210 in
Uruguay, 30,000 in Argentina, and 11,000 in Chile.

8. "remain, n." The Oxford English Dictionary. 2"^* ed. 1989.

9. Translation is my own. Rico suggests that two of the effects that
are resulting from the dynamics of social and politicai authoritarianism
from 1967 to 1984 are: 1) the violation of human rights due to institutional
impunity, which has affected the ways in which Uruguayans relate to each
other and to the institutions in society; and 2) the effects of state terrorism
and systematic torture, which has caused the devaluation of life and of the

Fornis o f Memory in Recent Fictional Narratives from Uruguay 107

integrity of the human body, where the devaluation and disintegration has
moved to micro-social leveis, private and intimare, affecting unprorecred
citizens most aversely.

10. "representation, n." The Oxford English Dictionary. 2"'' ed. 1989.

11. "citation, n." The Oxford English Dictionary. 2"'' ed. 1989.
Definitions include: 1) the written form of summons, or rhe documenr con-
taining it; 2) a summons; 3) enumeration, recital, mention.

12. "summon, r" The Oxford English Dictionary. 2"'' ed. 1989.

13. Jacques Derrida, Specters o f Marx: The State of the Debt, the Work
of Mourning, and the New International (New York: Routledge, 1994).

14. Kiev, written by Sergio Blanco and directed by Mario Ferreira is a
more recent play about the dictatorship, performed in 2007 by the Comedia
Nacional in Montevideo.

15. Areco was elected president in 1971 and implemented the beginnings
of the politicai, economic, and social repression that was solidified with the
Golpe.

16. An example of this kind of realistic representation is the intensely
descriptive novel El tigre y la nieve (1985) by Fernando Butazzoni. This novel
narrates the tragic story of a young Uruguayan woman who is kidnapped
along with her politicai militant boyfriend in Argentina, taken to a detention
camp in Córdoba, tortured, and freed only after assenting to a relationship
with the camp's director. See Note 1 for more examples.

17. Two important politicai changes have been, Tabaré Vasquez
becoming the first leftist party Érente Amplio president and the recent decisión
to remunérate former politicai exiles as well as former politicai prisoners, who
were imprisoned for a significant amount of years during the dictatorship.
With regard to the disclosure of "new" information: When Uruguayans
voted in the referendum in 1989, they did not know — as they now do — many
details about the crimes committed by the military and pólice. For example,
Uruguayans now know about the death flights operated by the Argentine
and Uruguayan military, in which leftist, and citizens considered to be a
"subversive" threat to the dictatorial regime were pushed to their death in
the Rio de la Plata. And they, also, now know about Plan Condor in which
dictators from Argentina, Brazil, Chile, Paraguay, and Uruguay collaborated
together, sharing intelligence in their efforts to rid their countries of the
supposed dissident guerillas. Bordaberry and Blanco's recent imprisonment
was the result of this "new" information. See Note 2.

108 Alexandra Falek

Works Cited

Benedetti, Mario. "El diecinueve." Buzón de tiempo. Madrid: Alfaguara,

1999. 48-53.
Derrida, Jacques. Specters of Marx: The State of the Debt, the Work of

Mourning, and the New International. New York: Routledge, 1994.
Fontana, Hugo. "La abeja sobre el pétalo." Quizás el domingo. Montevideo:

Banda Oriental, 2003. 50-60.
Gaicano, Eduardo H. El libro de los abrazos: imágenes y palabras. 16th ed.

Buenos Aires: Siglo XXI Editores Argentina, 2001.
Huyssen, Andreas. Twilight Memories: Marking Time in a Culture of

Amnesia. New York: Routledge, 1995.
Labanyi, Jo. "History and Hauntology; Or, What Does One Do with the

Ghosts of the Past? Reflections on Spanish Film and Fiction of the

Post-Franco Period." Disremembering the Dictatorship: The Politics

of Memory in the Spanish Transition to Democracy. Ed. Joan Ramón

Resina. Atlanta: Rodopi, 2000. 65-82.
Malezas. By María Pollak. Dir. Jorge Curi. Perf. Comedia Nacional de

Uruguay. Sala Verdi, Montevideo, 26 July 2006.
Rico, Alvaro. "La Dictadura, hoy." El presente de la dictadura: estudios y

reflexiones a 30 años del Golpe de Estado en Uruguay. Comp. Aldo

Marchesi, et al. Montevideo: Ediciones Trilce, 2003. 222-30.
Rilla, José Pedro and Gerardo Caetano. Breve historia de la dictadura,

1973-85. Montevideo: Ediciones de la Banda Oriental, 1998.

Sebald's Still Life Devices against
Interpretations: An Explanation of
Austerlitz through Cortázar's and
Antonioni's Cameras

Nicola Gavioli

University of California, Santa Barbara

In order to be "historical," a photograph has to pass through the
judgment of a community of interpreters. As it is typical for images,
photographs show signs of inner, potential narratives contained inside
them. Cortázar's short story "Las babas del diablo" (1959) focuses
on this implicit and fluid potential for images to produce stories.
If the intervention of an interpretative act determines the meaning
of a particular picture as Cortázar's protagonist Roberto Michel
exemplifies, in the case of the pictures of traumatic events such as
the Holocaust their inclusión in the textbooks adopted to teach
History at school — for being evaluated as especially representative of
the event — depends on the authority of the gaze of the interpreters.
Nevertheless, the attribution of authority is a debated point. In fact, a
negationist discourse of collective tragedies periodically arises to put
into question the veracity of the catastrophe of the Holocaust. In his
short story, Cortázar reflects on the multiplicity of meanings that a
photo contains. Roberto is able to choose one meaning only because
he was physically present at the photographed event. In fact, externai
elements he remembers guide his interpretative gaze. The same hap-
pens in the movie Blow-up by Michelangelo Antonioni (1966), based
on Cortázar's story, even though the question of the attribution of
meaning to an image is seen in a different angle. In fact, for Antonioni,
even the author of a photograph may have doubts about what really
happened at the moment of taking a picture, regardless of the fact
he was there. He too is presented as an unreliable authority. W. G.
Sebald's posthumous novel Austerlitz (2001) is a book on Holocaust
presenting numerous photographs on objects and places apparently
unrelated to the tragic event. The aim of this arricie is to explain how

MESTER, VOL. XXX V/ (2007) 109

lio Nicola Gavioli

their presence in Sebald's book functions as a response to the prob-
lems of images as instruments of knowledge solicited in Cortázar's
and Antonioni's works and as a device to control the production of
interpretations.

The wanderings of two characters through contemporary Europa,
their fortuitous Encounters, and the conversations they share in met-
ropohtan surroundings are at the center of Austerlitz. The narrator,
who is a middle-aged man without clear biographical background
(we know he is a Germán professor and a researcher at a university),
is not particularly interested in giving information about his past. On
the contrary, his sketches of impressions on landscapes and people,
his ruminative reflections, are at the core of his notes. In one of his
visits to the city of Antwerp, he casually gets to know AusterHtz, an
erudite academic who — as the readers soon discover — has forgotten
the part of his early hfe that coincides with the Second World War. The
acquaintanceship between the two men and their future encounters
frame the narrative.

Austerlitz., following the pattern of other works written by Sebald,
is a book that challenges the traditional classification of works of lit-
erature into genres. A novel tout court, a Holocaust historical novel,
an essay (in literary form) on the functioning of mnemonic processes,
are some of the possible labels we use to categorize this book. At first
sight, readers notice that this book, so rich in descriptions of buildings
and architectonic structures, is not organized according to a common
literary "architecture" (divisions into parts, signaled by chapters and
paragraphs). Even the diacritical marks distinguishing the volees of
the various speakers of the text are absent. The impression is that of
an almost uninterrupted wall of words, broken only in three points
by asterisks and, towards the conclusión, by a blank space indicating
the different times and locations of the encounters between the two
main characters. This absence is significam, in the sense that, as is
often the case in this book, what is missing is a continually evocated
subject. The sense of "weight" of this text, the impenetrability it seems
to suggest, is recalled in one observation made by the narrator, who
visits the fortification of Antwerp and reflects that "the construction
of fortification [. . .] clearly showed how we feel obliged to keep
surrounding ourselves with defenses, built in successive phases as a
precaution against any incursions by enemy powers" (Sebald 14). The
assumption of the existence of "enemy powers," which could break

Sebald's Still Life Devices against Interpretations 111

into and subvert the discourse, is directly connected to the almost
continuous text of Austerlitz: a closed, visually impenetrable defensive
stain of words, interrupted by numerous photographs inserted into the
text. This iconographic choice is meant to explore the theoretic ques-
tion of the use of images for the representation of a traumatic event,
such as the Holocaust. Every piece of Information Austerlitz recol-
lects about himself is a result of a quest, his research through Europe,
the consultation of documents, conversations with people who met
him as a child, and finally, images that serve as illuminating keys for
Austerlitz's personal memory.

If we consider the programmatic, systematic effort to dehuman-
ize the prisoners at all leveis and to completely erase the chance of
transmission of Information about what was actually taking place in
the camps, the Holocaust can be seen as an unicum in the history of
humanity. Based on this premise, the question that arises focuses on
the possibility for the traditional narrative forms (novel, short story,
biography, etc.) to transmit the singularity of the event. As Berel Lang
affirms:

[. . .] if there is a characteristically significant relation
between the subject or occasion of representation [. . .] and
the forms by which it is expressed, then it would follow
that the identif^ing features of the Holocaust — what makes
it distinctive historically and morally — would, and should
also make a difference in the mode of representation. (5)

Contrary to the idea that the Holocaust is a subject that cannot be
represented' but agreeing in what refers to the limits of traditional
literary forms, Sebald chooses not only to write a composite book on
this subject, but also to disseminate photographs in the text. The first
image that appears (not surprisingly) in the incipit of Austerlitz is that
of the eyes of the animais of the Antw^erp Nocturama, a zoo visited by
the narraron Their gaze resembles those of inquiring men:

[. . .] all I remember of the denizens of the Nocturama is
that several of them had strikingly large eyes, and the fixed,
inquiring gaze found in certain painters and philosophers
who seek to penétrate the darkness which surrounds us
purely by means of looking and thinking. (Sebald 4-5)

112 Nicola Gavioli

The photographs of animal and human eyes reclaim the attention of
the reader in fixed, direct glances from the pages, which anticípate the
centraHty of the act of seeing and function as a memorándum. The
follovving photographs in the book are neither ornamental nor ancil-
lary but constitute the crucial point of the reflection.

The premise of my analysis is shaped by Hayden White's consider-
ation of the historical text and its characteristics, comparable to those
of the fictional narrative. Historical events, claims White in his essay
"The Historical Text as a Literary Artifact,"

[. . .] are made into a story by the suppression or subordi-
nation of certain of them and the highlighting of others,
by characterization, motific repetition, variation of tone
and point of view, alternative descriptiva strategies, and
the like — in short, ali the techniques that we would nor-
mally expect to find in the emplotment of a novel or a
play (1715)

Tropes such as metaphor, metonym, synecdoche and irony are at work
in both fictional and historical verbal artifacts. Nevertheless, White
seems to underestimate the narrative potential of the images, the split
between w^hat people see in them and their original source, as he com-
pares the history with other ways to capture the reality:

[. . .1 it is generally maintained — as Frye said — that a his-
tory is a verbal model of a set of events externai to the
mind of the historian. But it is wrong to think of a history
as a model similar to a scale model of an airplane or ship,
a map, or a photograph. (1718)

White seems to oversimplify the relationship between reality and
photograph, as if the latter was an objective, puré copy of what is
seen, ignoring the particular selective gaze of the photographer in
the moment of taking it. Also, he does not take into consideration
photographs documenting past events that we cannot reach "by going
and looking at the original" (White 1718). Contrary to White's argu-
ment, photographs are always the result of a selection of elements
to assemble in a delimited frame. In addition to that, photographs
deal with ephemeral, the instantaneous, and the volatile, which is

Sebald's Still Life Devices against Interpretations 113

consequently not verifiable in an empirical way. To affirm that pictures
are transparent is to ignore both the photographer's working gaze and
the individual readings made by any person who looks at them. All
these conditions open doors to a variety of possibilities in the act of
producing, seeing and interpreting images. As seen in Cortázar's story
"Las babas del diablo," the picture is the product of a choice but this
choice is not under the complete control of the photographer. In fact,
he is not alone in his act of taking photographs. The camera itself is a
subject that influences the gaze of the photographer because it forces
him to look for singularity and meanings in the landscape. The pro-
tagonist of the story, Roberto Michelet, a translator and photographer
who Uves in Paris, notices that "[. . .] cuando se anda con la cámara
hay como el deber de estar atento [. . .] pensar fotográficamente las
escenas" and adds that "el fotógrafo opera siempre como una permut-
ación de su manera personal de ver el mundo por otra que la cámara
le impone insidiosa" (Cortázar 81). In other terms, the photographer
needs to find exceptional conditions in order to justify the shot and
Roberto 's imagination works to satisfy that need. When he is casu-
ally the spectator of the encounter between a boy and a more mature
woman in the streets of the Quai d'Anjou, he immediately starts con-
structing biographies and plots around them:

Lo que había tomado por una pareja se parecía más a un
chico con su madre, aunque al mismo tiempo me daba
cuenta de que no era un chico con su madre, de que era
una pareja en el sentido que damos siempre a las parejas
cuando las vemos apoyadas en los parapetos o abrazadas
en los bancos de las plazas. (Cortázar 82)

Different versions arise but all of them are curious enough to deserve
a picture. The reaction of the woman who has noticed Roberto 's shot
is aggressive. She asks for the roll of the camera because he did not
have the right to take that photograph. Another man getting out of a
car seems nervous. He joins the woman and reclaims the roll, while
the boy runs away. Roberto decides to keep the picture he made
and, some days later, he finally develops the photograph. The image,
enlarged and fixed on a wall, starts making sense only through the
reminiscence of the day of the encounter. The exaggerated reactions
of the two adults explain it. Roberto now "sees" a woman trying to

114 Nicola Gavioli

seduce a boy in order to bring him to the man in the car. To have been
physically present is decisive for the understanding of what really
happened (according to Roberto's interpretative decisión). The pho-
tograph would not be able to speak alone. The picture of the story is
not a mute simulacrum of reality, because it potentially could produce
many stories. Nevertheless, it is a too small window to perceive the
real motifs, the profound level of causality that explains the encoun-
ter between the boy and the woman. Still, a question remains: does
Roberto have a privileged understanding of the facts only because he
was there} Is firsthand witnessing a sufficient condition to legitímate
Roberto's visión?

Inspired by Cortázar's short story, Michelangelo Antonioni directs
Blow-up, a movie that underlines even more the inherent ambiguity of
pictures due to both the limits and creativeness of perception. As the
Italian critic Aldo Tassone suggests, the similarities between the short
story and the movie are reduced. What they really have in common is
more a "clima spirituale" (Tassone 143) than the details of the plot. In
this case, the protagonist, Thomas, is a fashion photographer working
in the London of the 1960s. In a fundamental scene of the movie — the
one that more resembles Cortázar's story — Thomas is wandering in a
park with his camera looking for new subjects: he decides to follow a
couple of adults, who act like lovers, and takes some shots of them.
The pictures contain the entire landscape that surrounds the couple.
When the woman realizes what Thomas is doing, she immediately
runs to reclaim for the roll while Thomas continues taking other
pictures. Needless to say, he refuses to sell his roll, and becomes even
more curious about the mystery the photos might contain. Some days
later, scanning the particulars of the pictures, he believes to have wit-
nessed the murder of a man. Hidden behind plants, a killer points a
gun towards the couple. Another image, taken before the discussion
with the woman, shows a little stain behind a bush: the corpse of the
man, according to Thomas's view. All seems to confirm that something
exceptional actually took place. In fact, unknown people start follow-
ing Thomas in the city and, surprisingly, the woman of the park finds
his place in order to ask him one more time for the roll. One night, the
photographer returns to the park, sees and touches the corpse — which
significantly has its eyes wide-open. The centrality of the act of seeing
is affirmed again, but the morning after there are no more traces of
it, not even marks of its presence on the ground. All of a sudden, a

Sebald's Still Life Devices against Interpretations 115

group of clowns arrives: they enter the tennis court and perfectly
simúlate a game without the use of rackets and balls. Spectator to all
this, Thomas starts to "hear" the typical sounds of a tennis game, as
if it is really taking place. The final scene implicitly questions the reli-
ability of the senses, susceptible to be guided by a will or confounded
by illusions in the act of reading the signs of the world.

The comparison between Cortázar's short story and Blow-up
reveáis some significam difference. The comparison between photog-
raphy and literary translation in "Las babas del diablo" is replaced
in Antonioni's movie by the similarities between photography and
the art of painting. One of the characters of the movie is an abstract
expressionist painter who explains to Thomas his creative process.
What he sees in his work in progress canvas is a "mess," a confu-
sión of colors and segments. Then, progressively, his gaze isolates an
element that becomes the "ciue" for the understanding of the image,
similarly to the reconstruction of a crime in a detective novel. When
Thomas shows one of the photographs he took in the park to the
painter's wife, she comments: "it looks like one of those paintings,"
but she cannot distinguish anything in the black and white "mess"
of the image. Another difference between the short story and the
movie regards the question on the capacity of the photos to explain
what the main character witnesses. Cortázar's story shows that the
reactions of the woman and the man in the car are fundamental to
interpreting the scene captured in the photo, while in the movie all
the essential elements are included in the image itself. The continu-
ous interaction Thomas has with the protagonists of his photos and
other unknown presences (only punctual in the short story, totally
concentrated in Roberto's impressions and solipsistic elaboration a
posteriori) confirms his belief in the importance of what the pictures
show. The pictures contain the story in its entirety; cause and effect
are included inside them. The examples from Cortázar and Antonioni
develop a reflection on gnoseology through the materiality of a fixed
image, each questioning different but interrelated aspects of the act
of seeing and understanding: the physical presence as a fundamental
factor in interpreting an image (Cortázar), and the relative purity and
independence of the gaze from the impressions generated by externai
solicitations or by the imagination of the photographer (Antonioni).

The problem of the potentially uncontrolled narrative interpreta-
tion of the images, due to the absence of an internai device in them

116 Nicola Gai'ioli

that delimits the production of significance, is decisive when we
approach historical photographs. The adjective "historical," obviously
applicable in a larger sense to any human product, refers here to a
specific category of photographs, those that depict episodes, minor or
crucial events included in the official History. Before appearing in the
textbooks used to teach past events at school and at university, every
historical picture passes through a process of selection and is connoted
with a particular, official meaning. These pictures receive and carry a
crystallized significance. Nevertheless, the role of the testimonies made
by the authors of the photos or by participants of the event is often
crucial in conferring credibility and legitimacy to the images.

Through the character of Roberto Michel, Cortázar demands that
the readers consider the same question: if, for even the author of the
photographs, there is an interval between the simple observation of
an image and the attribution of a meaning, how can we isolate the
event, which is actually taking place from other forms of reading, in
which the imagination intervenes? With respect to this, Cortázar adds
that "Michel es cupable de literatura, de fabricaciones irreales. Nada
le gusta más que imaginar excepciones, individuos fuera de la espe-
cie" (89). It is at this point that Sebald's work turns to be significant,
confronting the implicit polysemy of the images with a proposal that
aims to control it. The numerous photographs inserted in the text of
Austerlitz are not made by the same camera. The paternity of them
is not explicitly declared but some may be attributed to the homony-
mous protagonist, due to the link they establish with Austerlitz's first
person narrative. Others are relies from the past: figures in an oíd
village, daguerrotypes of landscapes, objects (a clock, a backpack,
shelves of books), interiors (a ladder, a table), a series of fragments
of memory, which accompany the progressive reconstruction of
Austerlitz's previous life.

The first pages of the book introduce the theme of the Holocaust,
although the narrator did not have a direct experience of that event.^
The principie of an indirect liaison between the objects photo-
graphed and the past they evoke is never broken. No single page of
the book presents a photo that documents the effects of the atroci-
ties committed in the concentration camp. Nevertheless, two images
"taik" openly of death: the first shows three skulls, a particular of
a large mound of skeletons found below Broad Street Station in
London in 1865. The reference to mysterious reasons that guide

Sebald's Still Life Devices against Interpretations í 2 7

Austerlitz toward the place of the burial seems particularly impor-
tant because the readers are induced to notice that the skuUs of the
previous inhabitants of London must have a correlation with other
skulls — other dead of history — according to the intentions of the
book. And in fact, the second direct references to death are images
of the cemetery of an Azkenazi Jewish community in London (fol-
lowed some pages later by photos of the Tower Hamlets cemetery).
It has been noticed that "the photograph of cemetery which recur
through [. . .] Austerliz signify that the hves of the protagonists are
constantly shadowed by death and the Holocaust" (Whitehead 127),
and that "the lack of boundaries and definitions in this universe of
disintegration is repeated in the attempt to abohsh the boundaries
between the hving and the dead — or rather, to make the dead part
of the present" (Schlant 232). The pictures of the skeletons and of
the cemetery seem particularly helpful to clarify the metonymic valué
of the collection of images of the book. In fact, a few skulls and a
group of headstones are potentially able to tecali, functioning as
synecdoches, the catastrophe of Holocaust. Nevertheless, alone, they
are imprecise in their evocative potentiality. In fact, they can refer
to any war, any violence, any dead. To make them speak about the
Holocaust, it is necessary to read the text that accompanies them.
In other terms, the pictures are not autonomous in Austerlitz: they
are inextricably linked to the words and to the totality of the other
metonymic photographs collected.

Comparing the selection of photographs Sebald decided to insert
in Austerlitz, it is observable the (apparently) digressive nature of them
which reflects the wandering thoughts of Austerlitz.^ The function of
these pictures seems to obey the author's will to postpone the actual
theme of the narration. This is true until the middle of the book, where
Austerlitz visits the Liverpool Street Station. The digression device —
for reasons of completeness in the act of communicating a scene or
event — is necessary, because it depicts mnemonic processes based on
a "step by step" uncovering of truth. In this sense, we could find in
"Las babas del diablo" a comment on what is insisted in the entirety
of Sebald's novel: to recount accurately is probably not possible, but
the ramblings of thought give at least an idea of the digressive nature
of memory itself. Also, how the selection of elements to w^rite about
is mimetically problematic and open to variations:

118 Nicola Gavioli

Vamos a contarlo despacio, ya se irá viendo qué ocurre en
medida que lo escribo. Si me sustituyen, si ya no sé qué
decir, si se acaban las nubes y empieza alguna otra cosa
(porque no puede ser que esto sea estar viendo continu-
amente nubes que pasan, y unas veces una paloma), si algo
de todo eso [. . .] (Cortázar 79)

More than that, memory is in general a tricky instrument for knowl-
edge as suggested by Sebald:

People make up myths about themselves and they stick
very closely to those stories that they have once "written"
in their own minds. (qtd. in Bigsby 51-52)

If memory is not always a reiiable instrument of the accuracy of the
facts that happened, it could be attacked and negated as well by revi-
sionist points of views: another irresoluble aspect of the labyrinthine
problem of testimony.

As the narration progressively focuses on Austerlitz's search for
documents on his past in Prague (the confirmation of what personal
memories suggest), the photographs as well become more personal,
more intimately linked to the Ufe of the protagonist: the house where
he lived with his parents before his escape to England and his photo
as a child. In visiting the city of Terezín nearby Prague, one of the
places that appear in the map of the concentration camps, Austerlitz
decides to enter the Ghetto Museum. It is fundamental at this point
to notice that no photo of the museum is shown. No original docu-
ment, nothing that might potentially reveal the nude reality of the
camp is offered to the gaze of the readers: a long interval of words
without images follows. This absence (in this particular moment and
place of the story) illuminates the meaning of Sebald's work and the
particular role of photographs in Austerlitz. If the images contain a
variety of presences, figures, interactions between subjects, they are
particularly exposed to be read as narrative. This is exactly what hap-
pens in Cortázar's "Las babas del diablo," where the presence of a
small group of human actors in the pictures implies the possibility of
different readings of the images.

Contrary to the examples chosen by Cortázar and Antonioni,
Sebald finds a solution to control the production of significance of

Sebald's Still Life Dei'ices against Interpretations 119

the images by inserting photos that are almost impermeable to the
construction of stories: isolated human beings, objects, architectures,
elements of nature. In other words, the photos tend to be as narrative-
free as possible."* Moreover, as previously noted, they are completely
dependent on the text that surrounds them in order to result compre-
hensible. Sebald is completely conscious of the danger of falsification
that a picture of the Holocaust can genérate for reasons related both
to the problem of authority, i.e. the question of the "purity" of the
gaze of the photographer, questioned in Blow-up, which can be sus-
ceptible to the attacks of Holocaust negationists, and to the exposure
of different readings by people who were not there, such an important
condition for understanding, according to Roberto Michel in "Las
babas del diablo." The declared vulnerability of Sebald's writings
is even more accentuated by the fact that this writer cannot in any
case exercise the function of an authority because, exactly as his
protagonist, he did not go through the experience of the Holocaust.
The photos have to be as indirect as his experience was. The black
and white color that characterizes them underlines the foggy mental
dimensión of the narrative:

In my photographic work I was especially entranced, said
Austerlitz, by the moment when the shadows of reality, so
to speak, emerge out of nothing on the exposed paper, as
memories do in the middle of the night, darkening again if
you try to cling on them, just like a photographic print left
in the developing bath too long. (Cortázar 77)

According to Giorgio Agamben, this opacity of impressions is discern-
ible in those works of literature that focus on the mnemonic processes
and the loss of the experience as their main themes of reflection. His
example is centered on Proust, who "sembra [. . .] avere in mente certi
stati crepuscolari, come il dormiveglia o la perdita di coscienza: 'je
ne savais pas au premier instant qui j'étais' è la sua formula tipica"^
(39), comparable to Austerlitz's numerous opaque reminiscences and
Roberto 's wandering thoughts.

"Las babas del diablo," Blow-up, and Austerlitz reflect on the
problem of the transmission of knowledge through images. It may be
pointed out that Sebald does not really find a solution to the poten-
tially uncontrolled narratives that originare from a photograph. In

120 Nicola Gavioli

fact, to affirm the neutrality of a photo means to oversimplify the
question: any picture, from the expression of a face to the fragment of
an object can produce narratives. The effectiveness of Sebald's solution
is not defended in this article. What seems relevant is the consciousness
that Austerlitz shows about the problems of the nature of photographs
that Cortázar and Antonioni indicated in their works, particularly the
impasse that a picture, by nature an open work subjected to differ-
ent interpretations but intended to testify and to communicate one
particular meaning, can provoke. The inner mechanism of Austerlitz
and Sebald's choice of pictures confronts the theme of the Holocaust
with a complete awareness of the current debate on the limits of art
and a will to expand them through a theoretical, fictional, though
essay-like, challenge.

Notes

1. As Berel Lang appoints in his essay Holocaust Representation, "it
has become almost a matter of course that writings about the Holocaust
should allude — often in their titles, but if not there, in the texts — to the
'incomprehensibility,' the 'unspeakability,' or 'ineffability,' and so, even more
cumbersomely, the 'unwritability,' of the Holocaust as a subject" (Lang 17).
Nevertheless, the author notices, "in these very discourses the 'incompre-
hensible' is explained (at least the effort is made), the 'unspeakable' and the
'ineffable' are pretty clearly spoken (or spoken about), and the 'unwritable' is
written" (17). This matter of fact that Lang describes as a contemporary use
of figure of speech of the praeteritio, is confirmed by the abundant literary,
cinematographic, artistic [sensu lato) production that every year presents the
Holocaust as a central theme. It seems to me that the controversial point
does not especially focus (anymore) on the possibility itself to talk about
that histórica! event. The question of the legitimacy of writers and artists
who did not experience directly the Holocaust in order to represent it and
the authority of the witnesses who did not obviously go through the entire
experience of the others, the so called Muslims (the term indicating the people
in the concentration camps who had supposedly lost the perception of being
human and who already had the appearance of dead), are amply discussed
problematic points. However, the forms in which to present the Holocaust
and the risks of divulging a too imprecise representation of the tragedy
through them are also crucial points of the contemporary criticai debate. Art
Spiegelman's Maus (1977), for instance, tells the history of the invasión of
Poland by Nazi forces and the struggle of a Jewish family to survive through

Sebald's Still Life Devices against Interpretations 121

the forms of comics. The physical characterization of the protagonists is
taken from the animal world: the Jews are represented as mice, the Germans
as cats and the Polish people (being coUaborators of the Nazis) as pigs. What
is precisely hard for the reader is to accept this graphical choice (which,
among other aspects, frees the anthropomorphic representation of animais
from the restricted entertaining use made by Disney and other cartoonists)
where mimicry is partially substituted by a gallery of a not-human figures but
preserved in the depiction of the places where the facts of the story occurred.
Beyond this challenging formar, Maus follows the traces of other narratives
of the Holocaust (those by Primo Levi, Imre Kértesz, Elie Wiesel, among the
others) on underlying the importance of the witness, the survivor, whose voice
has not only to be transcribed, but fixed in a tape-recorder as well (in fact
all the story of the book is based on the memories of an oíd man who talks
to his son, a cartoonist). The drawings and their potential of transmission of
knowledge carry the responsibility of the testimonial speech.

2. In Antwerp, the narrator of Austerlitz visits the Breendonk fortress
that was made into a Germán reception and penal camp during World War II
and, commenting on the link between objects and history, implicitly suggests
a declaration of ars poética for the understanding of the book itself: "Even
now [. . .] when I look back at the crab-like plan of Breendonk and read the
words of the captions — Former Office, Printing Works, Huts, Jacques Ochs
Hall, Solitary Confinement Cell, Mortuary, Relies Store, and Museum — the
darkness does not lift but becomes yet heavier as I think how little we can
hold in mind, how everything is constantly lapsing into oblivion with every
extinguished lite, how the world is, as it were, draining itself, in that the
history of countless places and objects which themselves have no power of
memory is never heard, never described or passed on. Histories, for instance,
like those of the straw mattresses 1. . .] and now, in writing this, I do remember
that such an idea occurred to me at the time — as if they were the mortal frames
of those who lay there in that darkness" (24).

3. In an article appeared in the "Times Literary Supplement" on
February 25, 2000, Susan Sontag expressed her admiration for Sebald and
reflected on the reasons for the presence of apparently insignificant pictures
in his works. She found in them the "imperfections of relies," although she
does not particularly clarify the qualities of these "imperfections."

4. The characteristic of neutrality that the photos show could also be
read as a result of a search for a total image in the sense expressed in ítalo
Calvino's short story "The Adventure of a Photographer," where a man tries
to immortalize a girl named Bice in her entirety: "There were many possible
photographs of Bice and many Bices impossible to photograph, but what he
was seeing was the unique photograph that would contain both the former
and the latter" (228). The impossible task is not abandoned but, instead of

122 Nicola Gavioli

searching for an impossible exceptional synthesis, he concludes: "Perhaps true,
total photography, he thought, is a pile of fragment of private images, against
the creased background of massacres and coronations" (235). In Sebald's
work, readers find a collection of "private images" supported by a narrative
that gives them a meaning they could not show by themselves.

5. Giorgio Agamben: "[. . .] he seems [. . .] to have in mind certain
crepuscular states of consciousness, like the drowsiness or the loss of
consciousness: 'je ne savais pas au premier instant qui j'étais' is his typical
formula" (39). [my translation from Italian)

Works Cited

Agamben, Giorgio. Infamia e storia. Saggio sulla distruzione dell'esperienza.

Torino: Einaudi, 2001.
Antonioni, Michelangelo, dir. Blow-up. Perf. David Hemmings and Vanessa

Redgrave. Cario Ponti Production, 1966.
Bigsby, Christopher. "W. G. Sebald: an Act of Restitution." Remembering and

Imagining the Holocaust: the Chain of Memory. Cambridge: Cambridge

UP, 2006.
Calvino, ítalo. "The Adventures of a Photographer." Difficult Loves. Trans.

William Weaver, Archibald Colquhoun and Peggy Wright. San Diego:

Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1984.
Cortázar, Julio. "Las babas del diablo." Las armas secretas. Buenos Aires:

Editorial Sudamericana, 1964.
Lang, Berel. Holocaust Representations: Art within the Limits of History and

Ethics. Baltimore: The John Hopkins UP, 2000.
Schlant, Ernestine. The Language of Silence. New York: Routledge, 1999.
Sebald, W. G. Austerlitz. Trans. Anthea Bell. New York: Random House,

2001.
Sontag, Susan. "A Mind in Mourning." Times Literary Supplement. February,

25, 2000.
Tassone, Aldo. / film di Antonioni. Roma: Gremese, 1990.
White, Hayden. "The Historical Text as a Literary Artifact." The Norton

Anthology of Theory and Criticism. New York: W. W. Norton and

Company, 2001.
Whitehead, Anne. Trauma Fiction. Edinburgh: Edinburgh UP, 2004.

o "modernizador dos sertões:"
intelectuais brasileiros e as memorias de
Delmiro Gouveia

Dilton Candido Santos Maynard
Universidade Estadual de Alagoas

Este trabalho trata de construções e reconstruções da memória. A
partir da análise de alguns escritos sobre Delmiro Gouveia, agroin-
dustrial nordestino conhecido por diversos epítetos, como "rei das
peles," "modernizador do sertão" e "coronel dos coronéis," analiso
como ele aparece, de modo inconstante, nos debates sobre os rumos
do Nordeste brasileiro. Após uma morte trágica, este personagem
foi envolvido em narrativas sobre a modernização dos sertões e, em
diferentes momentos, apontado como um mártir. Ao discutirem os
motivos que justificariam o "atraso" das terras do "norte" brasileiro —
permeadas pelo messianismo, pela seca, pela violência — diversos
intelectuais enxergaram em Delmiro o exemplo redentor a ser seguido.
Mário de Andrade, Gilberto Freyre, Assis Chateaubriand, Oliveira
Lima e Graciliano Ramos são os intelectuais considerados para as
reflexões aqui presentes. Seguindo alguns dos seus escritos, sobretudo
as crónicas, observo como se constituiu um núcleo a partir do qual
a memória de Delmiro Gouveia tem sido constantemente remexida,
ainda que permaneça nela a constante do "mártir civilizador."

Começo por uma crónica de Graciliano Ramos (1892-1953),
denominada "A propósito da seca," escrita nos anos 30. Nela o autor
avaliava as possíveis relações entre as secas no Nordeste e o parco
desenvolvimento da economia regional. Segundo ele, o cidadão estran-
geiro que não tivesse informações sobre o Brasil, que desconhecesse o
país e lesse "um dos livros que a nossa literatura referente à seca tem
produzido, literatura já bem vasta, graças a Deus, imaginaria que aquela
parte da terra que vai da serra Ibiapaba a Sergipe, é deserta, uma espécie
de Saara." Como outros literatos e jornalistas, o autor não disfarça o
descontentamento com as impressões negativas que a região transmitia.
Atribuía isto ao trabalho dos ficcionistas do século XIX e criticava o

MESTER, VOL. XXXVI (2007) 123

1 24 Dilton Cândido Santos Maynard

enfoque demasiado conferido à seca, em detrimento de outros fatores
de penúria local: "certamente há demasiada miséria no sertão, como
em toda a parte, mas não é indispensável que a chuva falte para que o
camponês se desfaça dos filhos inúteis." A seca, continua Ramos, "é
apenas uma das causas da fome" ("A propósito da seca" 132).

O desconforto com o tema, com a ideia de um espaço de miséria
e atraso económico, inspirou letrados em defesas sobre as potencia-
lidades da região. No século XX, esforço semelhante é percebido na
construção de representações "positivas" para o Nordeste e seus habi-
tantes,' através de crónicas, contos e romances que produziram alguns
símbolos e heróis destinados a responder afirmativamente ao chamado
dos "tempos modernos." Um destes ícones indubitavelmente foi o
Coronel Delmiro Gouveia. Uma visita a certas produções literárias
do século XX evidencia a existência de referências que influenciaram
diretamente na elaboração da memória deste personagem como um
mártir, algo depois solidificado a partir de eventos celebrativos liga-
dos ao seu centenário de nascimento. De início, porém, é conveniente
uma breve apresentação do personagem que se tornou o centro das
atenções de tantos intelectuais.

Nascido em 1863, em Ipú (CE), criado no Recife, Delmiro
Augusto da Cruz Gouveia era, conforme um dos seus mais conhecidos
biógrafos, "fisicamente forte, corpo cheio, notadamente o tronco, mas
bem proporcionado, com a estatura de mais ou menos 1,75 metro,
um tanto elevada, para o comum dos nortistas" (Martins 92). Órfão
de pai e, após a morte da mãe, em 1875, ocupou diversos empregos:
foi aprendiz de tipógrafo, auxiliar numa mercearia, despachante de
barcaças, funcionário da Brazilian Street Railways, caixeiro viajante.
Trabalhando na Levi & Cia, exportadora de couros, Gouveia nego-
ciou com comerciantes norte-americanos. Em meio aos negócios
aprendeu a manejar algo do inglês e do francês. Após certo tempo,
viajou a Nova York e de lá voltou como único responsável pela
exportação de peles no Nordeste. O sucesso nos negócios lhe rendeu
fortuna e o apelido de "Rei das Peles." Com o dinheiro obtido na
venda de couros, Gouveia diversificou seus investimentos e estabeleceu
duas outras grandes empreitadas: a Usina Beltrão (pioneira no fabrico
de açúcar em tabletes) e o Mercado Coelho e Cintra, o Mercado do
Derby, este último considerado o primeiro supermercado do Brasil.
O Derby chamou atenção da imprensa recifense porque, se durante
o dia abrigava pontos comerciais com produtos mais baratos, à noite

o "modemizador dos sertões" 125

era um espaço dedicado à diversão, dotado de velódromo e ilumina-
ção elétrica. Conhecido como "O Derby de Delmiro," o mercado foi
lembrado por um contemporâneo da seguinte maneira: "Qual foi o
empenho do Coronel Delmiro em emprehender tão importante obra?
Abrilhantar a cidade, proporcionar commodos a mais de 100 famílias,
melhorar a vida do pobre" (Freyre, O Velho Félix 121).

Além de impressionar por sua proposta arrojada para o Derby,
Gouveia transformou a sua residência, a "Vila Anunciada" (assim
batizada em homenagem à sua primeira esposa), num espaço para
grandes festas e saraus. Mesmo sem vir de família tradicional, ele
tornou-se Presidente da Associação Comercial de Pernambuco. O
também cearense ditou moda com os "colarinhos Delmiro Gouveia,"
um jeito de vestir que ele parece ter inaugurado no Recife. A fama
de negociante próspero logo foi acompanhada pela de galanteador.
Delmiro enviava rosas e bilhetinhos apaixonados às amantes.

Porém, intrigas políticas e o incêndio — ao que tudo indica — cri-
minoso do Derby, em 1900, a falência que decretou, além da ameaça
de prisão pelo rapto da neta do desembargador e ex-governador
de Pernambuco Sigismundo Gonçalves, Carmela Eulina do Amaral
Gusmão, moça por quem se apaixonou, na época ainda menor de
idade, levaram Delmiro a fugir, em 1902, para o sertão alagoano,
região na qual possuía aliados de certa influência política. Ali, fixou-
se na Vila da Pedra.

Do vilarejo Delmiro restabeleceu seus contatos comerciais, obteve
subsídios estatais, empréstimos bancários e, em pouco tempo, reer-
gueu sua fortuna. Num curto intervalo, Gouveia fundou nova firma (a
lONA & Cia, com sede em Maceió) e ordenou a construção da usina
hidrelétrica de Angiquinho — primeira experiência deste tipo no Baixo
São Francisco, através da cachoeira de Paulo Afonso. Com a energia
obtida, pôde então criar a Companhia Agro-Fabril Mercantil (CAM),
experiência inédita no Brasil com linhas de costura. Implantou uma
Vila Operária, na qual habitavam milhares de trabalhadores, gente
que se via obrigada a seguir rígidos ditames sobre horários, moral
e bons costumes. Ali, na noite de 10 de outubro 1917, enquanto
lia jornais na varanda do seu chalé, Delmiro foi morto com dois
tiros. Após a prisão, poucos dias após o crime, três sertanejos foram
obrigados, depois de muita tortura, a confessar o crime, e o caso foi
dado como encerrado. No ar, ficou a suspeita de que o assassinato
fora encomendado por pessoas ligadas ao grupo inglês da "Machine

126 Dilton Cândido Santos Maynard

Cotton," trust que, naqueles dias, realizava férrea campanha para
comprar a fábrica de Delmiro e retomar o monopólio no negócio de
linhas. Delmiro negava-se a vender a Companhia que, anos após a
sua morte, foi finalmente adquirida pelos britânicos. Os novos donos
chocaram a população da Pedra. Ocorre que diversas máquinas da
CAM foram quebradas e jogadas no leito do rio São Francisco. E, a
partir daí, conforme o já citado Graciliano Ramos, "um profundo
esquecimento cobriu Gouveia" ("Recordações" 116).

Acompanhando esta ideia de um eclipse na memória de Gouveia,
lançada não apenas por Graciliano, diversos intelectuais se empenha-
ram em transformá-lo num "mártir." É importante observar que antes
do escritor alagoano, outros já haviam mencionado acontecimentos
da vida de Delmiro, considerado-o um desbravador a ser celebrado.
Ainda nos anos 10, Oliveira Lima e Assis Chateaubriand, intelectuais
conhecidos e influentes, escreveram sobre Delmiro, classificando-o
como um contraponto ao sertanejo imerso no atraso, no fanatismo
religioso e na violência. A diferença entre estes dois e Graciliano está,
entre outras coisas, no fato de que eles produziram reflexões sobre
alguém a quem conheceram pessoalmente. Num texto de setembro
de 1917, escrito em Parnamirim (PE), dias após a visita que fizera
à Pedra, Oliveira Lima, o "Dom Quixote Gordo," registrou suas
impressões sobre Gouveia e as intervenções por ele comandadas. Suas
memórias sobre a excursão estão recheadas de elogios ao anfitrião e
de admiração pelas mudanças sofridas na paisagem sertaneja.

Oliveira Lima, então diplomata aposentado, elogia inicialmente o
pioneirismo de Delmiro escrevendo: "A rara iniciativa de um patrício
nosso cabem a honra e o mérito de ter iniciado o aproveitamento
dessa fonte excepcional de energia e progresso industrial" (427).
Conforme Lima, Gouveia teria agido sozinho e sem excessos, dando
mostras dos méritos da iniciativa particular. A sua descrição do vila-
rejo ressoará em trabalhos de outros narradores da vida de Delmiro,
textos que manterão um fértil diálogo com uma tradição interpretativa
que o ex-diplomata ajudou a estabelecer:

Na vila operária reinam a ordem, o asseio e pode-se dizer
o conforto (sic). As casas são todas iguais para se notar
diferença nas posses dos que as ocupam. Cada quarteirão
é ligado por um alpendre corrido, e cada habitação se
compõe de quatro aposentos: salinha de frente, quarto de

o "modemizador dos sertões" 127

dormir, salinha de trás para as refeições e cozinha. A mobí-
lia varia segundo os haveres dos moradores. Nalgumas
casas vi mobílias austríacas; noutras apenas uma mesa,
escabel e baús. Em todas ou quase todas uma máquina de
costura. (430)

A disciplina e as preocupações com a higiene e a saúde causaram
impacto no embaixador. Diferente de outros lugares, ali havia um
médico, certo "Dr. Maciel," que "vence 1 conto de réis por mês e
tem ordem de não poupar despesas para curar qualquer operário da
fábrica." O espanto de Oliveira Lima continua quando ele constata a
existência de cirurgião-dentista e alfaiates: "Não vi, quer nas oficinas,
quer nas ruas, um homem descalço ou de chinelos, uma mulher des-
grenhada ou de dentes sujos." Indubitavelmente os olhos de Oliveira
Lima leram a Pedra através de um prisma europeu. E justamente
por conta desta referência, ele sentencia: "Não é em todos os países
da Europa, somente naqueles de proverbial asseio e boa ordem, que
poderemos deparar com espetáculo igual" (431).

Conforme o pensador pernambucano, a vila da Pedra era um cadi-
nho de culturas manejado com maestria por Delmiro Gouveia. Tais
descrições da Pedra como um "cadinho" e um edifício moral ou ainda
como "um simples que é tudo" não cairão no vazio. Posteriormente
transformado numa das referências para a descrição sobre a Pedra,
Oliveira Lima imprimiu a concepção de que ali no sertão nordestino,
mesmo em tempos de guerra, vigorava uma mistura harmoniosa
de outras nacionalidades, sobretudo europeias, que se fundiam nos
empreendimentos de Gouveia:

O sócio do coronel Delmiro é um italiano de Trieste;
italiano é um engenheiro principal da usina elétrica, que
tem sob suas ordens um chefe de máquinas alemão e um
empreiteiro português; o gerente técnico da fábrica é inglês,
o eletricista suíço-alemão, o mestre de tinturaria inglês que
praticou na Alemanha. O espetáculo é uma miniatura do
Brasil como deve de ser e tem de ser, um Brasil sem ódios
de raça, nem de nacionalidade, nem de política, um Brasil
cadinho de todos os povos e campo de trabalho para todas
as capacidades. (435)

128 Dilton Cândido Santos Maynard

Seguindo de perto a tendência dos seus dias, Oliveira Lima
enxerga em Londres o centro civilizatório a ser emulado. E a vila não
parece longe de atingir tal objetivo. Afinal de contas, ele escreve, ali
"os princípios de boa educação abrem brecha nos usos mais enraiza-
dos: nenhum dos empregados come com os dedos e raros são os que
levam a faca à boca. Quase todos comem com o garfo, como a gente
fina." O "Dom Quixote" não consegue esconder a empolgação ao
registrar: "É gente essa que também toma chá e talvez o prefira ao
café: nos armazéns vi pilhas de latas de chá Lipton. Parece Londres
em pleno sertão" (431).

Operários que tomam chá. A força da imagem lançada pelo ex-
diplomata surpreende, se observarmos que ele concebe o produto
(Lipton) como um índice civilizador (e havia pilhas de chá na Pedra),
afastando os sertanejos de uma bebida aparentemente mais comum
ao hábito nacional — o café. Assim, através das palavras de Oliveira
Lima surge a Pedra, espécie de Londres sertaneja a se contrapor, nos
corredores da imaginação, ao mundo de violência e messianismo que
predominava nas representações sobre o sertão. Delmiro Gouveia
permitia a Oliveira projetar um outro tipo de mundo sertanejo, um
lugar livre do cangaço, da jagunçada e dos beatos. "Aos que só ima-
ginam essa região povoada de jagunços e cangaceiros criminosos,
ele [Delmiro] mostra que aqueles elementos de desordem podem ser
aproveitados e transformados em elementos de cultura." Para tanto,
era preciso apenas que o sertanejo fosse tratado "um pouco como
criança, mercê de sua ignorância, um pouco como adulto, mercê
da sua natural agudeza" (437). Tomando os domínios de Gouveia
como espaço modelo. Oliveira Lima escreveu: "O mais interessante
é que esse espetáculo se nos oferece a 40 léguas de Canudos e a 70
do Juazeiro do Padre Cícero" (437). Tal qual Canudos e Conselheiro,
Juazeiro e Padre Cícero se tornaram termos próximos à barbárie no
sertão.- As lutas políticas e o fervor religioso capitaneado pelo clérigo
alimentaram muitos dos intérpretes da região que, com exemplos
tão "negativos," parecia destinada a um contínuo atraso. Porém,
observa Lima, Pedra não está distante destes lugares. Sendo assim, o
que explicaria, em zonas tão próximas, respostas tão dessemelhantes?
Ora, para Lima, Gouveia teria procedido "[. . .] com um tino, um
senso psicológico, um espírito de tolerância e de penetração de que
infelizmente não deram prova nossos governantes ao lidarem com o
caso de Canudos." Todavia, o ex-diplomata, que não escondia a sua

o "modernizador dos sertões" 129

simpatia pelo monarquismo, atribuiu às autoridades republicanas a
responsabilidade pelas mortes no sertão baiano. Enquanto Gouveia
combateu o fanatismo com trabalho, arquitetando um povoado que
em certos aspectos acabava "fazendo lembrar as cidades alemãs," as
autoridades brasileiras "liquidaram pela brutalidade e pela crueldade"
ao povo de Canudos, "quando esse incidente de patologia social
apenas requeria moderação e brandura" (Lima 433-4).

Portanto, é com otimismo que Oliveira Lima analisa a obra civi-
lizadora de Delmiro Gouveia. Iniciativas como as existentes em Pedra
mereciam elogios, pois ajudavam a colocar o país nas trilhas do desen-
volvimento, promoviam a modernização de uma nação que buscava o
progresso. Os problemas que ela apresentava seriam sanados com o
tempo. As intervenções levadas a cabo por Gouveia promoveriam um
vigoroso processo de conscientização política entre os sertanejos. Tal
conscientização atingiria tanto as elites rurais quanto os camponeses.
O primeiro grupo, do qual Gouveia parece ser um representante exem-
plar na ótica de Lima, agiria de maneira mais cordial, preocupando-se
com a educação das massas. Os camponeses, adquirindo novos
hábitos, se tornariam em pouco tempo cidadãos melhores, educados,
civilizados. O mais importante, aos seus olhos, era ver no interior do
Brasil, nos sertões, uma cidade onde embora ainda não existisse uma
Igreja, já havia banheiros exclusivos para homens e mulheres.

Ao que tudo indica, o que ocorreu nestes tempos configura uma
memória ainda desarticulada, presente em menções, em textos isola-
dos, em ecos sem grande força. O "rei das peles" era lembrado, mas
de forma ocasional, bissexta. Porém, nos anos de 1960, na esteira das
comemorações pelo centenário de nascimento do comerciante cearense,
uma série de trabalhos biográficos aparecerá. Através destas obras
Delmiro foi tomado para contradizer a ideia do Nordeste de arcaico e
de insignificância no desenvolvimento nacional. Ao mesmo tempo, foi
citado como exemplo nos debates sobre a industrialização no sertão.
Portanto, é possível dizer que a emergência de Gouveia como um "dis-
ciplinador de homens" antecede a tais elogios biográficos. Precedido
por referências esparsas de intelectuais do porte de Oliveira Lima e
Graciliano Ramos, o projeto de reconstrução da memória de Delmiro
rompeu as fronteiras regionais graças, entre outras coisas, a uma vigo-
rosa contribuição de inúmeros letrados. E, ao contrário do que escreveu
o autor de Vidas Secas, não parece ter havido um esquecimento tão
agudo em torno de Delmiro Gouveia. Vejamos.

130 Dilton Cândido Santos Maynard

Conhecido como o homem que introduziu a luz elétrica e o
automóvel no Sertão, Delmiro foi elogiado pelos jornais já nos dias
seguintes à sua morte. O assassinato, noticiado em grandes periódicos
como o Jornal do Commercio e Revista da Semana,-' motivou palestra
do médico Plínio Cavalcanti na Sociedade Nacional de Agricultura
no Rio de Janeiro, ainda em outubro de 1917. Depois, nos anos 20,
sua morte foi uma das justificativas para conferir à Fábrica da Pedra
a marca de um empreendimento nacional que sofria concorrência
desleal e, portanto, legitimar as medidas protecionistas assinadas pelo
então presidente Arthur Bernardes (Decreto 17.383, 19 de julho de
1926). Ainda nos anos 20, é possível identificar outros exemplos da
persistência de Gouveia nas referências ao sertão brasileiro. A imagem
de Delmiro como um modernizador aparece no romance Macunatma
(1928). Após narrar as aventuras de um personagem singular, o autor
não deixou o seu preguiçoso herói "pousar" na Vila da Pedra:

Então Macunaíma não achou mais graça nesta terra. Capei
bem nova relumeava lá na gupiara do céu. Macunaíma
cismou ainda indeciso, sem saber si ia morar no céu ou
na Ilha de Marajó. Um momento pensou em ir morar na
cidade da Pedra com o enérgico Delmiro Gouveia, porém
lhe faltou ânimo. Pra viver lá, assim como tinha vivido era
impossível. Até era por causa disso mesmo que não achava
mais graça na terra... Tudo o que fora a existência dele
apesar de tantos casos tanta brincadeira tanta ilusão tanto
sofrimento tanto heroísmo. Afinai, não fora sinão um se
deixar viver: e para viver na cidade do Delmiro ou na Ilha
de Marajó que são desta terra carecia de ter um sentido.
E ele não tinha coragem pra uma organização. Decidiu:
" — Qual o quê! [. . .] quando urubu está de caipora o de
baixo caga no de cima, este mundo não tem jeito e vou pro
céu." [Macunaíma 157)

A "cidade do Delmiro" aparece assim como lugar da disciplina.
Um espaço que se distancia, portanto, das representações do sertão
como palco de desordem. Seria um habitat pouco adequado para
alguém como o "herói sem nenhum caráter" de Mário de Andrade
(1893-1945). Contudo, a apropriação de Gouveia como contraponto
a Macunaíma merece reflexão. E possível entender a presença de

o "modemizador dos sertões " 131

Delmiro, menos de 10 anos após a sua morte, referenciado em um
dos maiores clássicos da literatura brasileira? Certamente não será
como um discurso de louvor ao Nordeste. Afinal de contas, Andrade
procurou afastar de si o discurso regionalista. Daí a sua afirmação de
que um dos seus objetivos foi "desrespeitar lendariamente" tanto a
geografia quanto a fauna e flora geográficas. Em Macunaíma, espa-
ços e expressões regionalistas aparecem misturados. Deste modo, ele
escreveu que "desregionalizava o mais possível a criação ao mesmo
tempo que conseguia o mérito de conhecer literariamente o Brasil
como entidade homogénea" ("Prefácio"). Macunaíma a todo tempo
repete: "Ai . . . que preguiça!" A expressão vai de encontro ao tra-
balho ético, à disciplina, valores que Delmiro Gouveia, chamado por
Mário de "grande cearense," parecia encarnar para o intelectual pau-
lista. Deste modo, ao posicionar Gouveia no clímax do livro, como
uma das alternativas para seu anti-herói, Mário contrapõe o espírito
aventureiro do brasileiro a uma experiência aparentemente isolada de
culto à disciplina, ao trabalho."*

Diferente do que fez com seu mais famoso personagem, Andrade
descreve Delmiro como "génio da disciplina," homem que "lixava
as operárias da fiação que iam para o trabalho sem lavar a cara,
ou os padres que apareciam na Pedra tirando as esmolas pra coisas
longínquas" ("O grande cearense" 42). Se Macunaíma foi embora
por não suportar esta terra, Gouveia foi morto porque esta terra
não o suportava. Para o escritor, Delmiro era uma espécie de "[. . .]
dramático movimentador de luzes [. . .] dentro do noturno de cará-
ter do Brasil." Daí o seu fim trágico: "[. . .] teve o fim que merecia:
assassinaram-no. Nós não podíamos suportar esse farol que feria os
nossos olhos gestadores de ilusões, a cidade da Pedra nas Alagoas."
Assim, o aspecto trágico da morte de Delmiro surge nas palavras de
Mário de Andrade aparentemente como uma legítima punição a um
indivíduo transgressor. De acordo com a correspondência e com os
diferentes prefácios de Andrade para o seu livro (que findou sendo
publicado sem nenhum), Macunaíma foi escrito em poucos dias, entre
16 e 23 de dezembro de 1926, depois ampliado em 1927. Na verdade,
o autor conheceu a obra Von Roraima Zum Orinoco (De Roraima
para Orenoco) do filólogo, geógrafo e historiador alemão Theodor
Koch-Griinberg^ e, segundo ele, dela se apropriou, principalmente
do seu segundo volume, à maneira dos cantadores nordestinos "[. . .]
que compram no primeiro sebo uma gramática, uma geografia, ou

132 Dilton Cándido Santos Maynard

um jornal do dia, e compõem com isso um desafio de sabença, ou um
romance trágico de amor, vivido no Recife." Daí, Andrade afirmar no
Diário Nacional de 20 de setembro de 1931: "Isso é o Macunaíma e
esses sou eu." Portanto, Mário situa a sua criação como um produto
quase artesanal, resultante de colagens diversas, de costuras culturais,
classificando a si mesmo como alguém de tão múltiplas faces quanto
o herói da sua rapsódia que, ainda assim, finda sendo uma espécie
de herói-síntese, "[. . .] altamente complexo, pois nele se acumulam
caracteres heteróclitos, que se superpõem, muitas vezes sem um traço
comum que facilite a evidenciação" (Proença 10). Mário seguiria,
então, segundo as suas próprias palavras, uma metodologia que o
aproximava do cantador sertanejo, do cordelista que antropofagica-
mente prepara o seu texto.

Também reunindo contradições em torno da sua personalidade,
Gouveia parece ter mesmo impressionado Mário de Andrade. Afinal de
contas, cabe lembrar que o cearense foi, ele mesmo, aos 39 anos, perso-
nagem de um "romance trágico de amor" iniciado no Recife — "trágico"
pelas consequências trazidas para Delmiro, perseguido pela polícia
pernambucana, ameaçado pelos parentes da moça (menor de idade nos
tempos iniciais do namoro), alvo dos comentários da sociedade recifense
e, possivelmente, tema de alguns cordelistas. Não é improvável que o
escritor, no ímpeto de "conhecer literariamente o Brasil," tenha encon-
trado menções a Delmiro em meio a trovadores e periódico nordestinos.
Afinal de contas, Gouveia volta e meia frequentava as páginas dos jor-
nais e revistas (não é corriqueiro alguém ameaçar um vice-presidente
da República de bengala em punho, em plena Rua do Ouvidor, no Rio
de Janeiro, como ele fizera em 1899). O seu assassinato, como vimos,
foi noticiado em inúmeros veículos de comunicação.

Por outro lado, se voltarmos a ler o excerto de Macunaíma e
seguirmos um pouco mais adiante, ficaremos sabendo que o herói
andradiano decide ir para a lua e ser "[. . .] o brilho bonito mas
inútil porém de mais uma constelação" (157). Afinal de contas, o
que significa ir para a lua? Segundo Cavalcanti Proença, podemos
considerar esta opção pelo "brilho inútil" da lua como uma metáfora
sobre as conclusões tiradas pelo herói da análise da vida que teve
na terra. Indo para a lua, Macunaíma "[. . .1 continuaria a brilhar,
embora sem finalidade nem seriedade, nessa vocação para o brilho
puro, sem calor, que Mário de Andrade censurou tantas vezes nos
artistas brasileiros" (Proença 15). Em 1928, o próprio Mário, numa

o "modemizador dos sertões " 1 33

das suas muitas cartas a Carlos Drummond de Andrade, exorta o
amigo a não "viver o brilho intenso das estrelas," mas "tentar São
Paulo" e escreve: "[. . .] quem sabe se o contato com uma cidade de
trabalho, no meio nosso dum trabalho cotidianizado e corajoso, você
tem coragem pra uma organização e abandona essa solução a que
Macunaíma chegou" {A Lição do Amigo 133). A falta de "brilho"
(ou, se acompanharmos a argumentação de Mário, de um ambiente
dominado pelo trabalho), torna o herói andradiano dono de um triste
fim. O uso desta alegoria é recorrente, se considerarmos que Gouveia
é relembrado pelo modernista como "faroleiro." A carência desta luz,
deste brilho tão útil, tem como corolário um destino quase tão trágico
para o herói da rapsódia quanto aquele reservado ao próprio cearense,
por quem Mário revela interesse em passagens efémeras de crónicas
e correspondências. Uma destas manifestações de apreço aparece nas
reminiscências de uma excursão.

Entre dezembro de 1928 e março de 1929, Mário de Andrade
realizou a sua segunda "viagem etnográfica." Na primeira, visitara
a região do Amazonas e do Peru. Agora, a nova empreitada contem-
plava também regiões do Nordeste. Na ocasião, inclusive, passou pela
Ilha de Marajó que, em Macunaíma, colocou curiosamente próxima à
Pedra. Esta viagem foi importante para Andrade. Entre as suas memó-
rias, ficou a de uma conversa em meio ao Atlântico, relembrada anos
depois em um texto para o Diário de São Paulo: "[. . .] um homem
do Pará sucede ter convivido muito com Delmiro e conversamos sobre
o grande cearense" ("O grande cearense" 42). Quais os traços deste
personagem foram narrados para Andrade por seu companheiro de
viagem naquele dia lembrado como "feio" e de mar indócil? Um
deles certamente foi o ethos disciplinador de Gouveia. E Andrade
parece ter se divertido com o que ouviu: "[. . .] falaram que Delmiro
Gouveia era perverso, era não. Meu companheiro afirma que esse
António Conselheiro do trabalho não mandou matar ninguém" ("O
grande cearense" 42). O escritor registrou ainda: "Delmiro costumava
falar que brasileiro sem sova não ia, e por sinal que sovou e mandou
sovar gente sem conta, bem feito" ("O grande cearense" 42). Não
bastasse isto o autor paulista amplia a sua ironia: "[. . .] a arma dele
era principalmente o chicote que manejava como artista de circo. E
tinha birra de mulher fumante" ("O grande cearense" 42). Andrade
descreve as intervenções de Delmiro como únicas e contraditórias,
experiências que não deveriam ser esquecidas. Apesar da violência.

134 Dilton Cândido Santos Maynard

satirizada pelo autor que comparava o negociante a um hábil artista
circense, o processo civilizatório lançado por Gouveia nas Alagoas
chamava a atenção do intelectual. As intervenções do cearense nos
hábitos dos moradores eram bem vistas, pois a cidadezinha alcançou
uma "perfeição de mecanismo urbano como nunca houve igual em
nossa terra." O controle sobre os hábitos da população sertaneja só
atestava o ethos modernizador de Gouveia: "Si um menino falhava
na aula, Delmiro mandava chamar o pai pra saber o por quê. Chegou
a despedir os pais que roubavam os dias de estudos aos filhos, por
algum servicinho." Esta passagem de Andrade insere o agroindustrial
numa perspectiva diferenciada entre os donos de terra tipicamente pre-
sentes em romances regionalistas. Na perspectiva de Mário, Delmiro
destoa, por exemplo, das ideias defendidas por um dos personagens
mais conhecidos de Graciliano Ramos — Paulo Honório, o indiferente
senhor das terras de São Bernardo:

Efetuei transações arriscadas, endividei-me, importei
maquinismos e não prestei atenção aos que me censura-
vam por querer abarcar o mundo com as pernas. Iniciei
a pomicultura e a avicultura. Para levar os meus pro-
dutos ao mercado, comecei uma estrada de rodagem.
Azevedo Gondim compôs sobre ela dois artigos, chamou-
me patriota, citou Ford e Delmiro Gouveia. (49)

Embora o próprio Delmiro seja mencionado pela personagem,
a distância entre eles fica evidente no romance. Paulo Honório não
quer escolas, médicos, roupas, higiene e banheiros (que tanto impres-
sionaram Oliveira Lima) para os trabalhadores. Nada disto. Ao
ironicamente situá-lo entre Delmiro e Henry Ford, Ramos sinaliza
para uma concepção do cearense como um modernizador. Paulo
Honório, embora seja comparado a Gouveia (que, como o dono de
S. Bernardo também abriu estradas) e a Ford, não demonstrou grande
preocupação com intervenções nos hábitos dos trabalhadores, em con-
trolar a moral dos seus subordinados, em promover melhorias para
a gente que rodeava a sua fábrica. Se acaso isto ocorre na obra, não
parece ser uma preocupação central para Honório, algo que caracteri-
zasse fundamentalmente a personagem. Ao contrário do Delmiro, que
policiava os passos de pais e filhos operários, Paulo Honório pouco
se importa com a gente do campo, com os seus empregados. Vejamos

o "modernizador dos sertões" 135

a maneira com que o fazendeiro refere-se a um trabalhador enfermo:
"Uma doença qualquer, e é isto: adiantamentos, remédios. Vai-se o
lucro todo. [. . .] Mas não tem dúvida: mande o que for necessário.
Mande meia cuia de farinha, mande uns litros de feijão. É dinheiro
perdido" (São Bernardo 111).

A rápida menção feita ao agroindustrial em São Bernardo apenas
sugere Gouveia como uma referência civilizadora para Graciliano.
Um texto posterior nos convida a refletir sobre as contribuições do
mesmo Graciliano na arquitetura de Delmiro Gouveia como um
mártir modernizador. Em sua crónica "Recordações de uma indús-
tria morta," originalmente publicada na revista Cultura Política^ em
agosto de 1942 e presente na obra póstuma Viventes das Alagoas,
Graciliano Ramos narra que, em Pedra, Delmiro "estirava uma auto-
ridade sem limites" (115). A cidade, que em 1952 ganharia o nome
do comerciante cearense, foi descrita da seguinte maneira:

[. . .] arame farpado cercava a fábrica e a vila operária.
E os agentes do Governo, funcionários da prefeitura,
soldados de polícia, detinham-se nas cancelas, porque lá
dentro não eram precisos. Estava tudo em ordem, ordem
até excessiva, as casas abrindo-se e fechando no horário, os
deveres conjugais observados com rigor, o cinema exibindo
fitas piedosas, as escolas arrumando nas crianças noções
convenientes. Apito de manhã, apito ao cair da noite,
instrumentos e pessoas em roda viva, tudo melhorando, a
procura superior à oferta. ("Recordações" 115)

O excerto acima oferece mais indícios sobre a concepção que
Graciliano estabelece de Gouveia. Apesar de delinear o negociante de
peles como um modernizador — algo evidenciado pelo apito da fábrica,
pela vila operária — Ramos insinua excessos de Delmiro. Assim, se há
um mártir nas palavras do escritor alagoano, trata-se de alguém con-
traditório. Temos, na crónica sobre a "indústria morta" de Delmiro
Gouveia, uma leitura menos apologética do seu fundador. Contudo,
a compor o oximoro recorrente nos narradores da vida de Delmiro,
há no texto um indisfarçável elogio ao pioneirismo do "caboclo."
A mesma cidade de escolas com noções convenientes é cercada de
arames farpados; se há rigor no cinema e nos deveres conjugais, sábe-
se que as pessoas se misturam aos instrumentos em roda viva.

136 Dilton Cândido Santos Maynard

Vale lembrar que Graciliano viveu em Palmeira dos índios, no
agreste alagoano, a 190 km da Pedra. Antes de ser um escritor famoso,
o autor de São Bernardo chegou a ser prefeito da cidade (1928-1930).
Palmeira era a "porta" para ligar o litoral ao sertão alagoano. Em
meados dos anos 10, o futuro escritor se viu forçado a retornar para
a pequena cidade. Os negócios da família exigiam a sua atenção. De
volta à Palmeira, Ramos certamente ouviu relatos sobre os empreen-
dimentos de Gouveia. Observador atento do cotidiano da cidade, ele
talvez até tenha visto Delmiro e seus cinco automóveis, em carreara,
impressionarem os habitantes da cidade quando, por volta de 1915,
o cearense resolveu se exibir com as máquinas até então inéditas por
aqueles lados das Alagoas.

Conjecturas à parte, na descrição de Ramos, a cidade da Pedra
aparece como espaço que atestava a viabilidade do sertão, a neces-
sidade de explorar as águas do rio São Francisco, Delmiro é um
anunciador desta viabilidade, pois foi "[. . .] numa cachoeira notável,
mencionada sempre com respeito, admiração e inércia" que o baru-
lho das turbinas foi "[. . .] acordar alguns cavalos da manada que lá
dormia o sono dos séculos" ("Recordações" 115). Cabe lembrar que
o texto de Graciliano destinava-se a uma publicação oficial do Estado
Novo. Cultura Política deveria reunir intelectuais das mais diferen-
tes tendências para a produção de textos sobre a Nação. A ênfase
nestes tempos recaía sobre escritos referentes à "realidade nacional;"
abordagens que mostrassem a falência do liberalismo; as mazelas da
Primeira República, contrapondo-as aos avanços do regime oficial-
mente implantado em 1937.

Esta busca pela "realidade nacional" na literatura alimentava a
preocupação em estabelecer o olhar sociológico em diversas publica-
ções. Os novos tempos pediam que o intelectual saísse da sua "torre
de marfim" e contribuísse na tessitura de um novo ambiente, que
reunisse o mundo da cultura (espaço dos homens de pensamento,
os intelectuais) ao mundo da política (espaço dos homens de ação,
os políticos). E emblemática desta estratégia incorporadora de inte-
lectuais ao projeto estadonovista a eleição de Getúlio Vargas para a
Academia Brasileira de Letras, em 1943 (Velloso, Os intelectuais 11).
Neste plano interpretativo da realidade nacional, os ideólogos do
Estado Novo elegeram Euclides da Cunha (1866-1909) como uma
espécie de patrono das letras. A sua interpretação científica é tomada
como exemplar. A discussão sobre as interferências no interior do

o "modernizador dos sertões" 137

Brasil e sobre a arte de narrar a trajetória da historia brasileira via-se,
assim, envolta na perspectiva euclidiana. Mas, ao mesmo tempo,
era importante afastar a pátina do atraso brasileiro. Neste contexto,
cabia evidenciar que os focos da mudança estavam por toda parte.
Ao narrar as diferenças regionais, os intelectuais se esforçaram para
apontar ícones de um desenvolvimento que, se não era ainda efetivo,
existia potencialmente (Velloso, Os intelectuais 10).

É possível dizer que tanto na ótica de Mário de Andrade, quanto
na de Graciliano Ramos, Delmiro é circundado pelo halo civilizatório.
E, deste modo, a memoria configurada acerca dele é a de um arauto da
mudança, herói-síntese da modernização redentora. Mas, ao contrário
de Andrade, que ironizava a sociología classificando-a como a "arte de
salvar rapidamente o Brasil," Graciliano parece mais próximo de uma
perspectiva euclidiana ao observar um processo efémero de ascensão
e queda do sertão industrial. Pelo que assevera o escritor alagoano,
os feitos de Delmiro representam uma experiência proveitosa apagada
da memória local. Esquecimento que, segundo ele, "[. . .] amortalhou
a indústria aparecida com audácia no sertão, entre imburanas, catin-
gueiras, rabos-de-raposa e coroas-de-frade" ("Recordações" 116).
Além desta evidente referência ao eclipse de Gouveia e sua obra,
se o texto de Ramos pode ser visto como um elogio ao coronel, ele
também sugere contradições ao descrever um tempo e um lugar no
qual "[. . .] estava tudo em ordem, ordem até excessiva." Em dias de
Estado Novo, este sutil comentário que escapa na crónica sugere uma
visão menos idealizada de Gouveia e, talvez, dos próprios tempos em
que vivia Graciliano.

A crónica acima mencionada apresenta curiosas alegorias, ao falar
sobre uma "manada de cavalos" a ser despertada por Gouveia para a
indústria. Mas simultaneamente sabe-se que, apesar do despertar, há
arame farpado a deter o entra-e-sai das pessoas. Deste modo, embora
muitas vezes apareça de forma quase ocasional, Delmiro é frequen-
temente chamado para exemplar quando as descrições se referem ao
potencial do Nordeste. Daí a afirmação sobre a "malícia cabocla"
feita por Graciliano. Graças a esta habilidade, o sertanejo chamado
Gouveia "[. . .] saiu da capoeira, estabeleceu-se na cidade, passou a
infligir a criadores e intermediários as regras a que se havia sujeitado
em tempos duros" (Ramos, "Recordações" 113).

Este mito civilizador, urdido entre os literatos, talvez deva muito da
sua força à escrita de Assis Chateaubriand (1892-1960). Pouco depois

138 Dilton Cândido Santos Maynard

de visitar a Pedra, em 1917, Chato escreveu: "Será possível conseguir
do Brasil Sertão alguma coisa de profícuo? Pedra responde affirmativa-
mente a esta pergunta e de um modo decisivo e singular" (3). Porém,
é preciso situar a fala de Chateaubriand. O jornalista paraibano movi-
menta sua escrita dentro de um trauma ainda recente à sua época — o
movimento de Canudos e os sangrentos combates dele consequentes.
Gouveia e seus empreendimentos — o aproveitamento hidrelétrico da
cachoeira de Paulo Afonso, uma fábrica em pleno sertão, uma cidade
com energia elétrica, água encanada, escola e "polícia" sempre vigi-
lante, regulando os costumes — emergem como uma espécie de profilaxia
à volta de fenómenos messiânicos. Chato, que visitara a vila ao lado de
Oliveira Lima, afirmou ainda: "Pedra começa a resgatar o assalto de
Canudos, incorporando a cidade à civilização" (3).

Não por acaso, este texto de Chateaubriand foi batizado de "Uma
resposta a Canudos." O autor elogiava a ação de Delmiro, que lutava
contra "[. . .] a ignorância, o fanatismo religioso" utilizando "[. . .]
máquinas, engenhos de indústria humana, que em vez da morte e
da destruição, ensinam o sertanejo e o jagunço o trabalho fecundo
que educa, civiliza e aperfeiçoa" (3). Assim, o Hércules-Quasímodo
euclidiano seria, então, suplantado por um sertanejo moderno, civili-
zado. O artigo fez com que o próprio negociante escrevesse carta ao
jornalista, agradecendo os elogios recebidos: "Doutorzinho, você sabe
escrever tão bonito da gente que este pobre matuto nem tem como
agradecer-lhe. Aqui houve sertanejo que chorou" (Morais 94-95).
Exatamente um mês após a publicação do texto de Chateaubriand,
Delmiro foi assassinado. Alguns parágrafos acima vimos que a viagem
de Mário de Andrade pelo Brasil, por ele mesmo denominada de
"etnográfica," foi fundamental para uma série de escritos daquele
intelectual. Ao remexer nas lembranças das viagens e narrar a sua
conversa com um paraense, o escritor paulista se reencontrou com
o "António Conselheiro do Trabalho."^ Uma pergunta a ser feita:
Mário teria lido o artigo de Chateaubriand? Possivelmente. Assinando
diferentes colunas jornalísticas e ávido escritor de cartas para desti-
natários como o poeta pernambucano Manuel Bandeira e ao mineiro
Carlos Drummond de Andrade, o autor de Paulicéia Desvairada não
deve ter deixado passar desapercebido o texto de Chato. Porém, a sua
concepção é diferente daquela estabelecida pelo jornalista paraibano.
Enquanto em Chato circulam estereótipos antagónicos (o beato e o
modernizador), Mário reúne estas duas figuras e atribui a elas uma

o "modemizador dos sertões" 139

nova função: evangelizar pelo trabalho. Levar a luz civilizatória ao
interior do país através da disciplina e do mundo produtivo.

O que nos dizem estas duas referências, distantes entre si não
apenas cronologicamente, mas também em sua perspectiva.-* O que
tais menções podem nos dizer sobre Canudos, o sertão e Delmiro? Ao
que tudo indica, os estereótipos sobre o sertão envolvendo o cangaço,
o coronelismo, a seca e o messianismo foram repertorios que muitos
intelectuais tomaram para discutir os rumos da região. O peso de um
livro como Os Sertões (1902) de Euclides da Cunha, nestes tempos, é
praticamente inegável. Conselheiro e seus seguidores aparecem como
uma mácula, um obstáculo a ser superado no projeto de modernização
pelo qual deveria passar aquele espaço.

Por sua vez, aparecendo em diversos escritos como "modemiza-
dor dos sertões," Delmiro Gouveia e seus empreendimentos também
chamaram a atenção de Gilberto Freyre (1900-1987), que afirmou:
"Está ainda por ser escrito o estudo biográfico que integre essa
curiosa figura de 'self-made man' na época e no meio mais incisiva-
mente alcançados pelo seu arrojo e pela sua inteligência" (Ordem
663). A concepção de Gouveia como um "self-made man" prova-
velmente foi discutida em diálogos com o já citado Oliveira Lima,
de quem Freyre foi hóspede em suas viagens pelos Estados Unidos e
em Portugal, além de um correspondente corriqueiro durante alguns
anos (Gomes 13-14). Leitor do velho diplomata, Freyre parece ter
nutrido semelhante admiração por Gouveia, a ponto de indicar o
prédio da Vila Anunciada para primeira sede do Instituto Joaquim
Nabuco de Pesquisas Sociais.

Em dois livros de Gilberto Freyre, Ordem e Progresso e O Velho
Félix e suas memórias de um Cavalcanti, publicados pela primeira vez
em 1959, Delmiro aparece brevemente. No primeiro deles, o intelec-
tual pernambucano aponta a Vila Anunciada, a conhecida residência
de Gouveia, como um local de destaque no Recife oitocentista. A
Vila era um "palacete com banheiro quase imperial de mármore:
palacete a que deu um tanto liricamente o nome da esposa" (Freyre,
Ordem 663). O "Mestre de Apipucos" classifica Gouveia como um
dos "novos ricos," "novos poderosos" que o Recife viu surgir ao
final dos oitocentos. Era mais um dos desorientados sobre o que
fazer com o dinheiro, o poder e a cultura adquiridos às pressas. Para
Freyre, embora dono de dinheiro farto, Gouveia era um novo rico
desnorteado e mal educado. Um exemplar dos homens que trariam

140 Dilton Cândido Santos Maynard

O progresso a Pernambuco, mas também representavam o fim de um
mundo agrário, arcaico e mais harmónico.

Por sua vez, O Velho Félix consiste nos registros de Félix
Cavalcanti, editados pelo autor de Casa Grande & Senzala e por seu
primo Diogo de Melo Meneses. O livro encerra uma série de impres-
sões sobre acontecimentos da vida do Recife e do Brasil. Prefaciando a
obra, Freyre explicou que havia lido documentos familiares e o Livro
de Assentos de Cavalcanti, "[. . .] um vasto caderno guardado com
carinho por sua filha Maria Cavalcanti de Albuquerque Melo (laiá)"
(O Velho Félix XXVII). Em suas rememorações, produzidas tempos
depois dos fatos que presenciou ou dos quais foi contemporâneo, o
velho Cavalcanti demonstra indignação com o incêndio do Mercado
do Derby, concebido como símbolo de um tempo, síntese do empre-
endedorismo de Delmiro. O mercado fora incendiado na noite de 1°
de janeiro de 1900. Félix anotou em seu livro de memórias: "[. . .]
amanheceu o dia 2 de janeiro [. . .] sob a mais dolorosa impressão
causada pelo incêndio do Derby." E explica: "O que era o Mercado
do Derby? Um monumento. Uma obra tal que me dizem que um
alemão indo visitá-lo disse que o Brasil não estava em condições de
possuir uma obra daquele porte." Cavalcanti se mostra indignado
com o fato de que, além de ter o negócio destruído, Delmiro ainda é
preso. Após o incêndio destroçar o mercado, Gouveia foi preso sob a
acusação de ter sido o mandante do crime. O objetivo para tal seria
o recebimento do seguro do Derby. '^ Para tanto, conta o narrador, foi
enviado um "aparato de exército" para aprisionar o comerciante: "50
praças de polícia convenientemente municiadas às ordens do Alferes
Feitosa. Feitosa até há pouco tempo ocupava-se em entregar pão das
padarias: agora é alferes; isto é, progresso republicano!" (Freyre, O
Velho Félix 134). Nas palavras de Cavalcanti passeiam juntos a ojeriza
pela República e a simpatia por Gouveia.

As transformações atribuídas à República indignam o velho Félix.
Para ele, melhor seria se houvesse na ocasião um levante popular lide-
rado por "1. . .] um daqueles homens que existiram até a revolução de
48."'° Incomodava a Cavalcanti a ideia de que um mercado, aplau-
dido por um alemão, estava em chamas pela ação de homens que,
em sua ótica, punham fogo também no progresso de Pernambuco,
alimentavam o clientelismo e negavam espaço a inovações. A sua
indignação com a rápida ascensão de Feitosa, que pula de entregador
de pães para alferes, numa clara referência aos vícios mantidos pela

o "modernizador dos sertões " 141

República, se aproxima da descrição quase indiferente feita por Freyre
a "Delmiro Gouveia, que de pequeno chefe da estação de estrada de
ferro suburbana subiu quase da noite para o dia nos primeiros anos
da República a grande industrial" {Ordem 663). Ainda assim, estes
saltos do comerciante cearense entre as classes sociais— de simples
funcionário da Brazilian Street a rico e poderoso comerciante— foram
minimizados num momento em que Freyre procurava elementos para
atestar a força de Pernambuco no contexto nacional. Embora ironi-
zasse a origem e a pouca formação de Gouveia, Sir Freyre arrumou
um lugar para Delmiro que, apesar de cearense, novo rico e desnor-
teado, estava entre os representantes da pernambucanidade que o
sociólogo de Apipucos caracterizava como "um ânimo, um estilo ou
um modo de ser brasileiros diferentes" ("O estado" 7).

Enquanto Graciliano Ramos via nos truques do sertanejo Gouveia
partes essenciais de um itinerário redentor, Freyre apresentou obser-
vações mais comedidas, menos preocupadas com os custos sociais das
artimanhas de Delmiro, do que com a cristalização de um tempo de
progresso que Pernambuco viveu. E, assim, entre registros de figuras
como o "Papai-Outro," em crónicas como as de Graciliano e Mário
de Andrade, cristaiizou-se a memória de Delmiro Gouveia "moderni-
zador." Todavia, é importante observar a variedade de interpretações
feitas sobre a mesma personagem. Em meio a diários, cartas, textos
jornalísticos, contos, o comerciante cearense sobreviveu e, ao con-
trário do que disse Graciliano, não foi eclipsado de forma tão eficaz.
Sendo assim e considerando as fontes como espelhos deformantes
(Ginzburg, O queijo 17, 20) , como entender o olhar sobre Delmiro?
Como este personagem, em determinados momentos, ganhou tanto
espaço na produção cultural brasileira? Por quais motivos o seu nome
passou a ser associado ao desenvolvimento regional e a quem interessa
a construção de Gouveia como um ícone?

Talvez, tais questionamentos devam ser pensados no interior da
lógica construtora da identidade regional e da resposta ao descom-
passo do Nordeste frente ao ritmo de industrialização do Sul e Sudeste
do Brasil. Em tempos distintos, retomar a memória de Delmiro era
apontar um exemplo que não foi seguido (como aparece em Mário
de Andrade), o desenvolvimento latente e esporádico do sertão e o
peso da vida sobre extrema disciplina (tal qual nos sugere Graciliano
Ramos) ou ainda realizar a apropriação de um ícone identitário (como
em Gilberto Freyre). As intervenções realizadas sobre a memória de

142 Dilton Cândido Santos Maynard

Gouveia por estes intelectuais colocaram em movimento um con-
junto de representações que articulavam o discurso nacionalista ao
problema do desenvolvimento regional e tomavam as experiências
modernizadoras do "coronel" como exemplos da viabilidade eco-
nómica do Nordeste. Uma leitura forjada provavelmente não por
ficcionistas dos oitocentos, mas por intelectuais do século XX nas-
cente— como Chateaubriand e Oliveira Lima — que ainda conviviam
com os ecos de problemas como Canudos, Juazeiro e os estereótipos
deles resultantes.

Por outro lado, esta visita a algumas narrativas produzidas no
século XX indicia que, presente em diferentes textos, nos quais ora
ocupa centro, ora periferia, Delmiro transformou-se num mito, um
ícone regional. Entre outras leituras possíveis, Gouveia representaria
o nordestino que se contrapõe a um mundo de práticas arcaicas, inicia
um processo modernizador e é morto por isto. O próprio atrelamento
do seu assassinato à perseguição do capital estrangeiro sinaliza para
um caráter fatalista da história. A saga de Gouveia aparece assim
talhada, de um lado, pelo significativo peso das disputas económicas
e da inserção dos sertões nesta órbita e, por outro, pelas condições
culturais de uma sociedade resistente às inovações que ele sintetizava
nas narrativas dos letrados aqui observados. As implicações desta
representação não são poucas. Uma delas, presentes em alguns textos
aqui apresentados, é a de que ao barrar Delmiro e seus projetos, em
lugar dos "tempos modernos," o Nordeste trouxe para si o atraso
como castigo.

Notas

1. Um estudo que permanece emblemático acerca das imagens do
Nordeste em diferentes manifestações (literatura, artes plásticas, música e
cinema) é o trabalho de Durval Muniz de Albuquerque Júnior, A Invenção
do Nordeste e outras artes.

2. Os dois movimentos, Canudos (1893-1897) e Juazeiro, marcam a
história republicana em seus primeiros momentos. Por um lado, havia o choque
provocado em Canudos , no sertão baiano, entre as forças governamentais e os
camponeses liderados pelo beato António Conselheiro. Por outro, a crescente
influência religiosa e política de Cícero Romão Batista, o Padre Cícero, sediado
em Juazeiro, na região do Cariri, Ceará, os sertões do Nordeste despertavam a
curiosidade e, ao mesmo tempo, circulavam na imprensa escrita como palcos

o "modernizador dos sertões" 143

de barbárie. Todavia, Marco António Villa esclarece que embora os problemas
em Canudos tenham parecido maiores quando foi levantada a hipótese de que
Padre Cícero, em desavenças com o bispo de Fortaleza desde 1896, se uniria a
António Conselheiro, deve-se perceber as dessemelhanças entre os dois casos:
"Apesar de o padre Cícero estar em conflito com a Igreja, o mesmo não ocorria
em relação ao Estado e à classe dominante da região" (181). Rui Facó traça um
perfíl também dessemelhante do padre frente ao beato: "o sacerdote, apontado
como milagreiro, conseguiu ser, por um longo período, ditador de almas, chefe
político local, vice-governador do Estado, deputado federai eleito que recusou
a assumir a cadeira para não abandonar seu aprisco, tornou-se proprietário
territorial" (124).

3. Delmiro Gouveia. Revista da Semana. 20 out. 1917.18.

4. Neste aspecto, cabe observar as considerações de Manuel Cavalcanti
Proença: "E esse espírito de aventura do brasileiro, contrapondo-se ao
trabalho, não é invenção de Mário de Andrade mas observação de sociólogos
eruditos falando sério, mestres como Sérgio Buarque de Hollanda" (12).

5. De acordo com Câmara Cascudo, Macunaíma é "[. . .] entidade
divina para os macuxis, acavais, arecunas, taulipangues, indígenas caraibas, a
oeste do platô da serra de Roraima e Alto Rio Branco, na Guiana Brasileira"
(347). Como esclarece Cavalcanti Proença, tanto o nome de Macunaíma
quanto o de seus irmãos se refere ao herói indígena cujo nome aparece pela
primeira vez em 1868, em trabalho de W.H. Brett acerca dos silvícolas da
Guiana: "Desconhecendo a verdadeira personalidade, os missionários usaram
o nome Macunaíma para traduzir o de Deus, nos catecismos, conforme o
testemunho de Capistrano de Abreu, Herbert Baldus e do próprio Amoroso
Lima" (8). É ainda Câmara Cascudo quem explica que, com o passar do
tempo, Macunaíma foi-se tornando um "[. . .] misto de astúcia, maldade
instintiva e natural, de alegria zombeteira e feliz" (347).

6. A revista Cultura Política foi idealizada pelos agentes culturais do
Departamento de Imprensa e Propaganda (DIP), com o objetivo de reunir
textos de diferentes intelectuais em uma só publicação que ressaltaria a
unidade em torno do projeto estadonovista. Pagando bem pelos textos nela
publicados, a revista atraiu diversos intelectuais. Sobre isto ver Mónica
Pimenta Velloso Os Intelectuais e a Política Cultural do Estado Novo.

7. A tradição euclidiana, baseada em amplo lastro documental, concebe o
realismo na escrita como uma necessidade do narrador. Durante o Estado Novo
(1937-1945), esta concepção foi ressaltada com vistas a sedimentar um discurso
homogéneo em torno do nacional. Sobre a postura diferenciada dos intelectuais
ver Mónica Pimenta Velloso, "A literatura como espelho da Nação."

8. A existência de repertórios de imagens comuns a uma determinada
tradição é explorada habilmente por Cario Ginzburg em um curioso artigo,
"Um lapso do Papa Wotjla."

/ 44 Dilton Cândido Santos Mavnard

9. Gouveia respondeu a tais acusações pela imprensa, informando que,
apesar dos problemas nos negócios, a sua situação financeira era muito boa.
Em 4 de janeiro de 1900, Gouveia escreveu uma carta, que providenciou que
fosse publicada, no dia seguinte, no jornal A Província. Nela ele afirma: "Não
devo a pessoa alguma e nos meus bens de raiz há dez ou quinze vezes mais
da soma precisa para cobrir minhas obrigações de comerciante e industrial,
dada a hipótese que hoje findasse o prazo de todas e elas são em pequeno
número" (Menezes 106).

10. A referência feita aos "homens de 48" é uma evocação dos líderes
da Revolução Praieira, ocorrida em Pernambuco. Tendo início em setembro
de 1848 e se estendendo até 1850, a Praieira compreendeu "[. . .] o clímax
de um confronto entre grupos liberais (praieiros) e conservadores (guabirus)
pelo domínio da província," como escreveu Izabel Marson (223). Entre os
seus principais líderes estavam Peixoto de Brito, Borges da Fonseca, Pedro
Ivo, Afonso Ferreira, Manuel Pereira de Moraes. O nome atribuído ao
movimento deriva do Partido Nacional de Pernambuco, também chamado
de Partido da Praia, que obteve apoio considerável dos eleitores primários
do Recife. O movimento se tornou um símbolo da resistência liberal contra a
ascensão conservadora e ganhou destaque na historiografia sobre o Império
no Brasil.

Obras citadas

Albuquerque Júnior, Durval Muniz de. A Invenção do Nordeste e outras

artes. São Paulo: Cortez Editora, 1999.
Andrade, Mário de. A Lição do Amigo: cartas de Mário de Andrade a Carlos

Drummond de Andrade. Rio de Janeiro: Livraria José Olympio, 1982.

. Macunaíma. 33rd ed. Rio de Janeiro: Livraria Garnier, 2004.

. "O grande cearense." Os filhos da Candinha. São Paulo: Martins

Editora, 1976. 39-44.
. "Prefácio 1926." 20 de outubro de 2005 <http://acd.ufrj.br/pace/

macunaíma. html>.
Cascudo, L. Câmara. Dicionário Brasileiro de Folclore. Ver.Atua. 9 ed. São

Paulo: Global Editora, 2000.
Chateaubriand, Assis. "Uma resposta a Canudos." Diário de Pernambuco.

lOSet. 1917:03.
"Delmiro Gouveia." Revista da Semana. Obituary. 20 Oct. 1917: 18.
Facó, Rui. Cangaceiros e Fanáticos. 9 ed. Rio de Janeiro: Bertrand Brasil,

1991.

o "modemizador dos sertões" 145

Freyre, Gilberto. "O estado de Pernambuco e sua expressão no poder nacio-
nal: aspectos de um assunto complexo." Biblioteca Virtual Gilberto
Freyre. 12 Set. 2004 <http://prossiga.bvgf.fgf.org.br/frances/obra/
opusculos/o_estado.html>.

. O Velho Félix e suas "memórias de um Cavalcanti. " Rio de Janeiro:

José Olympio, 1959.

. Ordem e Progresso. Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio, 1959.

Ginzburg, Cario. O queijo e os vermes. Trans. Maria Betânia Amoroso. São

Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 2003.
. "Um lapso do Papa Wotjla. "O//70S de madeira: nove reflexões sobre

a distância. Trans. Eduardo Brandão. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras,

2001.219-228.
Gomes, Angela Castro. "Em familia: a correspondência entre Oliveira Lima

e Gilberto Freyre." Org. Angela Castro Gomes. Escrita de si, escrita da

historia. Rio de Janeiro: FGV, 2005. 51-76.
Lima, Manuel de Oliveira. "Um passeio a Paulo Afonso (I)." Obra Seleta.

Rio de Janeiro: INL, 1971. 427-435.
Marson, Izabel A. "29 de setembro de 1848: Revolução Praieira." Org. Circe

Bittencourt. Dicionário de datas da historia do Brasil. São Paulo: Ed.

Contexto, 2006. 223-228.
Martins, F. Magalhães. Delmiro Gouveia: pioneiro e nacionalista. Rio de

Janeiro: Ed. Civilização Brasileira, 1963.
Menezes, Olympio. Itinerario de Delmiro Gouveia. Recife: Instituto Joaquim

Nabuco de Pesquisas Sociais /MEC, 1963.
Morais, Fernando. Chato: o rei do Brasil. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras,

1994.
Proença, M. Cavalcanti. Roteiro de Macunaíma. 3rd ed. Rio de Janeiro:

Civilização Brasileira, 1974.
Ramos, Graciliano. "A propósito da seca." Linhas Tortas. São Paulo: Record,

1977. 132-134.
. "Recordações de uma indústria morta." Viventes das Alagoas: qua-
dros e costumes do Nordeste. Rio de Janeiro: Record, 1977. 113-116.
. São Bernardo. 86 ed. Rio de Janeiro: Record, 2006.

Velloso, Mónica. "A literatura como espelho da Nação." Estudos Históricos

(1988): 239-263.
. Os intelectuais e a política cultural do Estado Novo. Rio de Janeiro:

FGV/CPDOC, 1987.
Villa, Marco António. Canudos: o povo da terra. São Paulo: Ática, 1999.

Rafael Alberti y el peso del ayer

C. Brian Morris

Universidad de California, Los Angeles

No siempre se puede ser
del momento que se vive.
Nos pesa mucho el ayer.

Yo sueño con un futuro
que no le pese el ayer.

Baladas y canciones del Paraná (1953-1954)

No obstante las muchas diferencias que nos distinguen, tenemos dos
cosas en común: un futuro implacablemente igualador, y un pasado que
se llena de vivencias y, a través de la memoria, de reviviscencias. Ante
la muerte que nos espera y el ayer que, segiin nos recuerda Quevedo,
ya se fue (4),' todos reaccionamos de modos distintos. Rafael Alberti
se alinea con Jorque Manrique, Quevedo y Bécquer, preocupándose
más por el pasado que por el futuro, adoptando una perspectiva que
él reconoce como elegiaco, y lamentando, en Baladas y canciones del
Paraná^ que "Nos pesa mucho el ayer" {Oc II 756). Francisco Brines
ha afirmado que "Todos los poetas son elegiacos." Alberti fue más lejos
aún, enlazando vida y obra en su confesión, hecha en las postrimerías
de su vida, de que "[. . .] toda mi vida, puedo decir sin exageración, es
una elegía. Casi todo el tono de mi poesía es elegiaco" [Arboleda [1996]
22). El mismo señala la coincidencia entre la muerte y el génesis de su
vocación poética, afirmando en sus memorias que, con el fallecimiento
de su padre, "Mi vocación poética había comenzado. Así, a los pies de
la muerte, en una atmósfera tan fúnebre como romántica" [Arboleda
[1959] 141). Y, para estrechar aún más la relación entre muerte y poesía,
recuerda que "Volví de nuevo a visitar los cementerios, con Bécquer en
los labios y una opresión en el pecho" [Arboleda [1959] 144).

En la obra de Rafael Alberti no faltan poemas a las que él pusiera
el marbete de elegía, a nada menos que a cuatro en Marinero en tierra

146 MESTER, VOL. XXXVI (2007)

Rafael Alberti y el peso del ayer 147

(1924). Denominar elegía a un poema hasta cierto punto controla al
lector, identificando su género y su propósito, el que, según Bruce W.
Wardropper, "parte de una muerte y no de la muerte" (8). Lo que hace
nuestro poeta, en cambio, es subrayar no el género sino el tono, que
no puede ser sino elegiaco cuando tantas veces lamenta la pérdida, la
destrucción, la separación y la ruptura. Las "rotas raíces" que conme-
mora en Baladas y canciones del Paraná, se pueden referir a más que a
su canto, al que, dice, "[. . .] le falta el alimento / de la tierra conocida"
{Oc II 757). Al adolescente desplazado a Madrid contra su voluntad
también le faltó de repente "el alimento / de la tierra conocida," y
esa falta, y la conciencia de ella, predominan en Marinero en tierra,
donde, resentido contra su padre, le increpa con estas preguntas:

¿Por qué me trajiste, padre,
a la ciudad?

¿Por qué me desenterraste
del mar? (Ocl 123)

Alberti sentía profundamente el dolor de la distancia, insistiendo
en Pleamar (1942-1944) que "Sí, yo era marinero en tierra de mari-
nos" {Oc II 175), definición que él glosa amargamente en Versos
sueltos de cada día (1979-1982), donde se describe como "Marinero
de sombras y de angustias" {Oc III 549). Esta conciencia de la pér-
dida, asociada estrechamente con el desarraigo, domina sus memorias,
que él reunió bajo un título tan sombrío como la arboleda perdida,
donde él acude una y otra vez al participio "perdido" y al despido,
pronunciando en "¡Adiós infancia Hbre, pescadora . . . !" {Arboleda
[1959] 97) su tristeza ante la desaparición de una etapa inocente,
feliz, la que luego, lo mismo que Proust, él se dedicaría a recuperar y
a revivir durante toda su obra, presa de la añoranza y de la nostalgia.
La nostalgia es más que un gran tema, como ha insistido Gregorio
Torres Nebrera, de toda la poesía albertiana (47-48): es un senti-
miento hondo que se impone como tema, una potente fuerza motora
y una presencia constante — o inseparable, según la califica en Baladas
y canciones del Paraná, donde lamenta:

Siempre esta nostalgia, esta inseparable

nostalgia que todo lo aleja y lo cambia. {Oc II 701)

148 C. Brian Morris

Inseparable fue ya cuando se trasladó a Madrid, donde se vio
obligado a abrevar en lo que llamó "aquel pozo nostálgico," tan lleno
de recuerdos de El Puerto de Santa María {Arboleda 11959] 171), El
tener que alejarse cada vez más de su tierra natal profundizó la nos-
talgia, haciendo que la ventana por donde mira en Argentina, "[. . .]
que esté abierta o cerrada," dice en Baladas y canciones del F araná
[Oc II 710), le lleve a Jerez de la Frontera, agudizando la necesidad de
ver y recrear en su mente lo que no puede ver con sus propios ojos, y
de seguir evocando, y de ahí adorando, lo más esencial de su patria,
como pone de manifiesto también en Argentina, en la misma obra:

Tierras lejanas ... Y toros.
Y barcos . . . Mares lejanas.

Os beso, tierras sagradas
para mí, tierras lejanas.

Me arrodillo en vuestras olas,
en vuestras arenas, playas.

Olas y arenas sagradas,

para mí, mares lejanas. {Oc II 714-715)

Estas tierras y mares sagradas están aún más distantes — y más
añoradas — que cuando las lloró en Marinero en tierra^ cuya pérdida
motivó la protesta deparada a su padre: "¿Por qué me desenterraste
/ del mar?" Estar desenterrado del mar — hermosa paradoja — es estar
fuera de su elemento, apartado de lo que más íntimamente asociaba
con su infancia, consagrada como mártir de esa conciencia implacable
suya de la pérdida y del alejamiento tanto temporal como físico. En la
mente y en la obra de Alberti, la infancia desempeña un doble papel:
es víctima a la vez que superviviente gracias a la memoria, concitada
y resucitada constantemente por una mente que se niega a olvidar.

La infancia tantas veces evocada por nuestro poeta demuestra dos
facetas esenciales de la memoria: su tendencia reiterativa, señalada
por Samuel Beckett en su observación "Repetidamente con solamente
ínfimas variantes el mismo antaño" (20),' y su misión de salvador de
vivencias perdidas y recuperables sólo en la mente. Según ha comen-
tado acertadamente una estudiosa de la memoria, Mary Warnock,

Rafael Alberti y el peso del ayer 149

"[. . .] hay en la memoria, forzosamente, una sensación de pérdida:
miramos hacia atrás a un país al que no podemos volver" (141).^
Ese sitio especial, ese país irrecuperable, era para Alberti su infancia,
representada una y otra vez por su colegio de San Luis Gonzaga, en
el Puerto de Santa María, el que permanece congelado en su mente
como un recinto que le robaba a él, como a tantos otros, su libertad.
En Baladas y canciones del Paraná, él cuenta — sin explicar cómo,
por ser antojadizos los mecanismos asociativos de la memoria — que
"Un barco al pasar me trajo / las ventanas de mi colegio." El paso de
ese barco le lleva a situar el colegio, que era culpable de encerrar el
sol tanto como a los alumnos desde las seis de la mañana, hora tan
temprana que la plaza queda todavía desierta:

Un barco al pasar me trajo
las ventanas de mi colegio.

Era una plaza redonda

con dos araucarias en medio.

A las seis se abría una puerta
y ya el sol se quedaba dentro.

Afuera, vacía, la plaza,

con las ventanas del colegio. (Oc II 733-734)

Repetidamente en su obra Alberti se asigna el papel de fugitivo
de ese colegio-cárcel, denominándose en sus memorias "[. . .] aquel
mal colegial playero de los jesuítas" {Arboleda [1959] 121-122) y,
en Versos sueltos de cada día, "[. . .1 colegial escapado, a la orilla del
mar" {Oc III 560). En Los 8 ocho nombres de Picasso (1966-1970)
es más específico aún, recordando que

Cuando yo andaba junto al mar de Cádiz,

huyendo del latín y la aritmética

y pintando veleros sobre un azul rabioso [. . .] {Oc III 127)

Esas dos asignaturas — el latín y la aritmética — eran las que más anti-
patía generaban en nuestro poeta, representando lo más agobiante de
una disciplina escolar a pesar de las notas de Notable y Aprobado que

150 C. Brian Morris

sacaba (Tejada 26). Alberti nos quiere convencer de que, si no fuera por
la aritmética, no habría disfrutado de ninguna "[. . .] alegre mañana
pescadora entre el castillo de la Pólvora y Santa Catalina, frente a
Cádiz," y que, si no fuera por el latín, no habría cogido "[. . .] la orilla
de los pinos, en dirección a San Fernando" {Arboleda [1959] 15)."* Una
de las voces que constituyen la textura coral de "El muchachito," uno
de los poemas "escénicos" de El matador (1961-1965), pronuncia una
profecía que habría de cumplirse: "Lo echarán del colegio." Las razones
de esa expulsión fulminante las explica al principio del poema el mucha-
cho protagonista, y las glosa al final con igual ingenuidad:

Me gusta más la playa que el latín.

El mar azul más que la aritmética.

El sol durmiéndose en las dunas,

más que el pintado en una lámina. (Oc II 928)

Otro estudioso de la memoria — ^John Kotre — ha subrayado la
importancia de lo que él ha denominado "episodios simbólicos," acla-
rando que "Encontramos un solo episodio concreto que representa un
tema principal de nuestra vida, que resume todo un conjunto de signi-
ficados" (101).^ En este enfrentamiento entre la playa y el latín, el mar
y las aritméticas, el sol y una reproducción en una lámina, Alberti pre-
cisa la naturaleza simbólica de ese constante evocar suyo de su colegio:
el colegio representaba el encierro, la falsificación y el ofuscamiento.
Recordar la libertad granjeada por rabonas aumenta la vehemencia
de su denuncia y la intensidad de su revulsión en "Colegio (S.J.)," de
De un momento a otro (1934-1938), poema forzosamente modulado
por su compromiso político a una causa que fue derrotada:

tanta ira,

tanto odio contenido sin llanto,

nos llevaban al mar que nunca se preocupa de las raíces

cuadradas,

al cielo libertado de teoremas,

libre de profesores,

a las dunas calientes

donde nos orinábamos en fila mirando hacia el colegio.

(Oc I 614-615)

Rafael Alberti y el peso del ayer 151

Con sus ciento veinte versos repartidos en seis secciones, "Colegio
(S. J.)" rebasa el recuerdo nuclear para convertirse en manifiesto polí-
tico y documento social, alejándose de la concisión y la precisión que
distinguen "Los ángeles colegiales," de Sobre los ángeles (1927-1928),
donde Alberti capta en solamente diez versos tanto el mundo hermé-
ticamente cerrado de la clase con sus aparatos pedagógicos, como la
mente cerrada — o, más bien, nunca abierta — de los alumnos que la
habitan. Totalmente proscrito por el férreo régimen escolar, el mundo
exterior se intuye solamente a través de fenómenos naturales que,
como evidencia del ofuscamiento colectivo, son mal interpretados y,
de ahí, deformados por todos: "Sólo sabíamos [. . .] que un eclipse de
luna equivoca a las flores [. • -1 y que las estrellas errantes son niños
que ignoran la aritmética." El poeta entonces viene a ser el portavoz,
el mensajero, del grupo, intérprete del misterio en el que están sumidos
todos; es la voz que, al alternar dos veces "Ninguno comprendíamos"
y "Sólo sabíamos," confiere orden estructural al desorden mental,
transformando en rutina una manera de vivir y de pensar equivalente
a una eclipse o a los borrones hechos de tinta china:

Ninguno comprendíamos el secreto nocturno de las pizarras
ni por qué la esfera armilar se exaltaba tan sola cuando la

mirábamos.
Sólo sabíamos que una circunferencia puede no ser redonda
y que un eclipse de luna equivoca a las flores
y adelanta el reloj de los pájaros.
Ninguno comprendíamos nada:
ni por qué nuestros dedos eran de tinta china
y la tarde cerraba compases para al alba abrir libros.
Sólo sabíamos que una recta, si quiere, puede ser curva o quebrada
y que las estrellas errantes son niños que ignoran la aritmética.
(OcI435)

La distancia temporal y física genera otro tipo de evocación en
"Retornos de los días colegiales," menos reviviscencia que reminis-
cencia hondamente reflexiva, una divagación lírica a la manera de las
también autobiográficas meditaciones de Wifliam Wordsworth en El
preludio, el que recurrió a flores con propósito simbólico lo mismo
que nuestro poeta al principio y al final de su poema:

152 C. Brtari Morris

Por jazmines caídos recientes y corolas
de dondiegos de noche vencidas por el dia,
me escapo esta mañana inaugural de octubre
hacia los lejanísimos años de mi colegio.
[. . .]

Estas cosas me trajo la mañana de octubre
entre rojos dondiegos de corolas vencidas
y jazmines caídos. {Oc II 489, 490)

Como para probar la afirmación de otro estudioso de la memoria —
Daniel L. Shacter — de que "[. . .] reconstruimos el pasado para hacer
que sea consistente con lo que sabemos ahora" (146),'' Alberti atribuye
al joven colegial la misma conciencia de la libertad que él enfatiza repe-
tidamente en sus memorias, cuyos dos primeros libros coinciden con
Retornos de lo vivo lejano, haciendo que esta obra sea, en las palabras
acertadas de Gregorio Torres Nebrera, "[. . .] una versión versificada
de su libro de memorias" (81). Las dos obras coincidentes confirman
al mismo tiempo la observación de José María Ridao, con respecto a
Walter Benjamin, de que "[. . .] esta repentina necesidad autobiográfica
es común entre los autores que se saben abocados a enfrentar tiempos
sombríos" (148). Todo el poema de Alberti — y la condena que está
implícita en él — está basado en un contraste fundamental, que él des-
pliega en cada estrofa, entre la libertad y el encarcelamiento, entre lo
auténtico y lo falso, entre lo natural y lo representado:

El mar reproducido que se expande en el muro
con las delineadas islas en breve rosa,
no adivina que el mar verdadero golpea
con su aldabón azul los patios del recreo.

[...]

Las horas prisioneras en un duro pupitre

lo amarran como un pobre remero castigado

que entre las paralelas rejas de los renglones

mira su barca y llora por asirse del aire. [Oc II 489, 490)

Alberti nos enseña que la memoria no es, no puede ser, neutral: los
contrastes que provoca conllevan juicios y hasta comentarios aciagos
acerca de la naturaleza esquiva, relativa, de la libertad. Pensando quizás
en las quejas deparadas contra su padre, él musita en la misma obra

Rafael Alberti y el peso del ayer 153

que "Podías, cuando fuiste marinero en tierra, / ser más libre que ahora
[. . .]" (Oc II 529). El contraste que apuntala un poema de Canciones del
Alto Valle del Aniene (1967-1971) crea un choque de tonos en sintonía
con su reacción placentera a las voces y su recuerdo despiadado de la
canción. En el momento presente congelado por el poema, nuestro poeta
oye, involuntariamente, "[. . .] trenzadas al tambor y a la zampona, /
claras voces de niños y de niñas." Ese coro tan espontáneo y campestre
le recuerda la obligación que se le imponía de entonar, en coro forzado,
"[. . .] alguna canción idiota / compuesta por una monja." Y se consuela
pensando que en la actualidad todavía existen "[. . .] hijos de pastores, /
gente campesina" que cantan al aire libre y que, sencillamente, disfrutan
de la libertad. El verso "Con el aire me llegan" abre y cierra el poema,
cuya concisión estrecha el enlace entre el pasado y el presente:

Con el aire me llegan,

trenzadas al tambor y a la zampona,

claras voces de niños y de niñas.

Cuando yo estaba en la escuela,
al terminarse del año,
cantábamos a la Virgen
alguna canción idiota
compuesta por una monja.

Hoy, aquí, todavía,
son hijos de pastores,
de gente campesina.

Con el aire me llegan. {Oc III 194-195)

En este vaivén de planos temporales y de asociaciones, Alberti
demuestra que su memoria es más que un "álbum de postales,"
según una frase acertada del poema "Carta abierta," de Cal y canto
(1926-1927) {Oc I 372): es un procesador de recuerdos, que ofrece
comentarios, veredictos, hasta sobre la función misma de la memoria
y los problemas que acarrea. Esta función crítica, reflexiva, se ve cla-
ramente en un poema de Baladas y canciones del Paraná, el que, más
que ser una sencilla reminiscencia de una aventura infantil, llega a ser
un comentario profundo sobre la memoria y el paso del tiempo:

154 C. Brian Morris

Yo mataba los murciélagos
en torres frente a la mar.
Hoy, en balcones lejanos
de la mar y frente a un río,
pasan, negros, por mi frente
y no los quiero matar.

Murciélagos de los días

torreados, frente al mar:

yo os mataba, pero ahora

que está cayendo la tarde

tan lejos de aquella mar,

aunque paséis por mi frente

— ¡seguid! — , no os puedo matar. (Oc II 698)

Matar murciélagos — actividad a la que el poeta no alude en sus
memorias — parece ser un episodio simbólico, es decir, en las palabras
del ya citado John Kotre, "[. . .] un solo episodio concreto que repre-
senta un tema principal de nuestra vida." Según Gorgo, en el drama
El adefesio (1942), los murciélagos "Anidan en la cabeza del demonio
... Y dan vueltas y vueltas como el remordimiento" {Adefesio 281).
En este poema, los murciélagos dan vueltas y vueltas en la memoria
del poeta, el que insiste: "[. . .] pasan, negros, por mi frente / y no los
quiero matar," porque son parte de su pasado, y mientras pasen por su
frente, ellos — y él — siguen vivos: perduran como parte de su pasado,
y él sigue viviendo para recordarlos. No obstante, concluir "[, . .]
aunque paséis por mi frente / — ¡seguid! — , no os puedo matar," es
subrayar, de un modo elegiaco, la imposibilidad de volver a hacer de
hombre lo que él hacía de niño, señalando de nuevo la doble función
paradójica de la memoria, que es a la vez sepulturera y salvadora. De
niño, uno puede matar murciélagos; de mayor, uno no puede ni debe
matar el recuerdo de haber matado murciélagos. Lo que pertenece,
muerto, al pasado sigue, vivo, en la mente. Si "no os puedo matar"
lamenta el pretérito irrecuperable, "no los quiero matar" mantiene
vivo el pretérito irrecuperable.

El recordar, entonces, para Alberti — como para tantos otros — es
una obligación, y el definir la memoria es otra. Las diversas defini-
ciones que él nos ofrece a través de su obra, y especialmente en su
libro más proustiano. Retornos de lo vivo lejano (1948-1956), son

Rafael Alberti y el peso del ayer 1 55

testimonio de una fascinación por la memoria que compartía con
tantos escritores — por ejemplo, Antonio Machado, María Teresa León
y, en la actualidad, Antonio Muñoz Molina y José Saramago — con la
salvedad de que no solamente intenta captar su funcionamiento sino
registrar las reacciones, a veces conflictivas, que despierta en él tener
una memoria tan densa. La súplica que pronuncia en Canciones del
Alto Valle del Aniene:

Dejadme sólo un momento
que me lleve, sin memoria,
lejos, este aire, (Oc III 206)

atribuye a la memoria un peso que él tiene por una bendición tanto
como por una maldición. Su comentario acerca de Dámaso Alonso —
"Su memoria era inmensa — aún más de la que yo padezco" [Arboleda
[1959] 155) — señala el cariz negativo de la memoria, que él representa
metafóricamente como un tipo de vía dolorosa, aludiendo en La
arboleda perdida a "los tupidos senderos de la memoria" {Arboleda
[1959] 121) y en Retornos de lo vivo lejano a "las empinadas cuestas
de la memoria" [Oc II 499).

Sin embargo, poder evocar el pasado es analgésico, según él pone
en claro en otro poema de esa obra, donde exclama, aliviado:

¡Qué consuelo sin nombre no perder la memoria,

tener llenos los ojos de los tiempos pasados [...]! [Oc II 510)

Mientras su declaración, en otro poema de la misma obra — "elijo

10 que más me revive llamándome" — indica un proceso selectivo, su
alusión a "(Estas perdidas ráfagas que vuelven sin aviso [. . .])" [Oc

11 499, 487) señala la naturaleza imprevisible, antojadiza de la memo-
ria, algo que también fascina a José Saramago, que ha escrito en Las
pequeñas memorias:

Muchas veces olvidamos lo que nos gustaría poder recor-
dar, otras veces, recurrentes, obsesivas, reaccionando ante
el mínimo estímulo, nos llegan del pasado imágenes, pala-
bras sueltas, fulgores, iluminaciones, y no hay explicación
para ello, no las hemos convocado, pero ahí están. (169)^

156 C. Brian Morris

En la mente de Alberti, la memoria puede ser removida por colores, por
sonidos — como el de trenes que en 7\rgentina "van hacia el Guadarrama"
{Oc II 729) — o por una hoja que agita la brisa, según aclara en un pasaje
esperanzador de "Retornos del amor en los vividos paisajes:"

Pero basta el más leve palpitar de una hoja,
una estrella borrada que respira de pronto
para vernos los mismos alegres que llenamos
los lugares que juntos nos tuvieron. {Oc II 512)

Si una hoja que mueve la brisa trae esperanza, las hojas que
arranca el viento traen otros recuerdos, y el canto que entona en
Baladas y canciones del Paraná a las hojas caídas es una elegía al
paso del tiempo representado en Sobre los ángeles por "[. . .] esas
hojas tenaces que se estampan en los zapatos" y por esa ecuación tal
elocuente de "Una hoja, un hombre" {Oc I 442, 437). Las preguntas
que él dirige a las hojas caídas, y que enmarcan el poema, son con-
movedoras por las negativas que conllevan:

Hojas caídas, ¿puedo hablaros,
desear algo de vosotras?

Secas hermanas, otros tiempos,
tenaces en mis suelas rotas.

De noche, siempre en mis zapatos
persistíais mojadas, solas.

¿Puedo encontrar, hojas de hoy,

una de ayer entre vosotras? (Oc II 750)

Querer encontrar una hoja de ayer entre las de hoy es querer
aferrarse al pasado al mismo tiempo que conmemora su estado preté-
rito, condición que T. S. Eliot definió como "pastness" en su célebre
ensayo "Tradition and the Individual Talent" (49). A diferencia de
José Ángel Valente, que advierte en Poemas a Lázaro de que "no
vuelvas la mirada. / No podemos volvernos," Rafael Alberti declara
en Pleamar: "[. , .] yo sé [. . .] que debo / recordar ciertas cosas" [Oc
II 173). Compartiendo la convicción expresada por María Teresa

Rafael Alberti y el peso del ayer 157

León de que "Vivir no es tan importante como recordar" (130), él,
en Baladas y canciones del Paraná, enfrenta al Olvido y al Recuerdo
en un combate alegórico, que gana el último:

Pensé ponerle a mi casa

de campo un nombre: El Olvido.

Pero pensé: ¡qué buen nombre
para los que mal me quieren
y se llaman mis amigos!

Le di otro nombre: El Recuerdo.
Y di El Olvido al olvido. {Oc II 750)

Todos podríamos decir, como ha dicho Alberti en El matador,
"Pero soy [. . .] No, no soy. Dejadme decir: era" {Oc II 931), porque
todos tenemos nuestro propio pasado, o, según ha indicado Emilio
Lledó: "Somos porque hemos sido."*^ Con el paso de los años, lo que
hemos sido afecta y modula cada vez más intensamente lo que somos,
con la consecuencia de que muchos vivimos mirando hacia atrás.
Sin embargo, si pocos tenemos el talento o la vocación de convertir
nuestro pasado en poesía, por lo menos podemos hacer lo que Alberti
propone escuetamente como solución al hecho triste pero humano de
que él era: "Recordar." Es una medida que, mientras enlaza el pasado
y el presente, da al pasado un porvenir. Recordar, preconiza Rafael
Alberti; mejor aún es lo que hace él: escribir recordando.''

Notas

1. "Ayer se fue; mañana no ha llegado" es un verso del magistral soneto
"'¡Ah de la vida!' 1. . .] ¿Nada me responde?"

2. "Repeatedly with only minor variants the same bygone."

3. "[. . .] there is in memory, necessarily, a sense of loss: we look back
to a country to which we cannot return."

4. "Matemáticas. Latín" es el título de un apartado de las memorias de
Francisco Ayala, el que sentía por esas asignaturas la misma repugnancia que
Alberti, con quien compartía la condición humillante de "externo," adoptando
el hacer rabonas como medida contra la indiferencia de "los buenos padres
escolapios" (49).

158 C. Brian Morris

5. "We find a simple concrete event that stands for a major theme in
our life, that summarizes a whole cluster of meanings."

6. "[. . .] we reconstruct the past to make it consistent with what we
know in the present." Esa costumbre la define Shacter como "predisposición
retrospectiva" ("hindsight bias").

7. En la misma obra, que es ai fin y al cabo una celebración de la
memoria, Saramago alude al "ovillo enmarañado de la memoria" (17), al
"poder reconstructor de la memoria" (20), a "las brumas de la memoria"
(126) y a su contrincante, los "aluviones de olvido" (47).

8. Dijo Lledó acerca de la memoria: "Somos porque hemos sido, sin
memoria somos seres neutros, etéreos, vacíos. La memoria es maestra de
la vida, no de la nostalgia, sino del futuro. La memoria es la sensación y
lo que queda de las sensaciones en el alma y el lenguaje, en los latidos del
corazón."

9. Este ensayo es una versión revisada de la ponencia que dicté en el
Congreso Internacional Rafael Alberti y su tiempo, que se celebró en Madrid
del 24 al 28 de noviembre de 2003. Agradezco a la Sociedad Estatal de
Conmemoraciones Culturales su invitación a participar.

Obras citadas

Alberti, Rafael. El adefesio. Ed. Gregorio Torres Nebrera. Madrid: Cátedra,

1992.
. La arboleda perdida. Libros I y II de memorias. Buenos Aires:

Compañía General Fabril Editora, 1959.
. La arboleda perdida. Quinto libro (1988-1996). Madrid: Anaya &

Mario Muchnik, 1996.
. Obras completas. Tomo L Poesía 1920-1938. Tomo II. Poesía 1939-

1963. Tomo III. Poesía 1964-1988. Ed. Luis García Montero. Madrid:

Aguilar, 1988.
Ayala, Francisco. Recuerdos y olvidos. Madrid: Alianza, 1982.
Beckett, Samuel. Company. London: John Calder, 1986.
Brines, Francisco. "Estoy en un momento de ocaso." El País. 28 August

2003.
Eliot. T. S. The Sacred Wood. Essays on Poetry and Criticism. 7^^ ed. London:

Methuen, 1960.
Kotre, John. White Gloves. How We Créate Ourselves through Memory. New

York: The Free Press, 1995.
León, María Teresa. Memoria de la melancolía. Ed. Gregorio Torres Nebrera.

Madrid: Cátedra, 1998.

Rafael Alberti y el peso del ayer 159

[Lledó, Emilio.] "Semprún, Lledó, Ridao y Xavier Antich dialogan sobre la

memoria roja de 'Veinte años y un día'." El País. 28 October 2003.
Quevedo, Francisco de. Obras completas. I Poesía original. Ed. José Manuel

Blecua. Barcelona: Planeta, 1963.
Ridao, José María. El pasajero de Montauban. Barcelona: Galaxia Gutenberg,

2003.
Saramago, José. Las pequeñas memorias. Trans. Pilar del Río. Madrid:

Alfaguara, 2006.
Shacter, Daniel L. The Seven Sins of Memory. How the Mind Forgets and

Remembers. Boston-New York: Houghton Mifflin, 2001.
Tejada, José Luis. Rafael Alberti entre la tradición y la vanguardia (Poesía

primera: 1920-1926). Madrid: Credos, 1977.
Torres Nebrera, Gregorio. "Introducción." Rafael Alberti. Retornos de lo

vivo lejano. Ora marítima. Madrid: Cátedra, 1999.
Valente, José Ángel. Punto cero (Poesía 1956-1979). Barcelona: Seix Barrai,

1980.
Wardropper, Bruce W., Ed. Poesía elegiaca española. Madrid: Anaya, 1967.
Warnock, Mary. Memory. London: Faber and Faber, 1987.

El recuerdo fracturado de la Guerra Civil
española: trauma individual y colectivo
en La prima Angélica

Andrés Pérez Simón
JJniversity of Toronto

Supongamos, y es un ejemplo un tanto banal, que si para
Proust su infancia es una serie de detalles más o menos
poéticos en torno a un ambiente familiar, para mí esos
recuerdos son mucho más violentos: es una bomba que cae
en mi colegio, y una niña ensangrentada con cristales en la
cara. Y eso no es una invención literaria, es un hecho real.
Por eso yo creo que esa atmósfera de la guerra de alguna
forma gravita, o debe gravitar, sobre mí, y por consecuencia
tiene que gravitar sobre las cosas que hago.

Carlos Saura

En el presente ensayo analizaré la película La prima Angélica (1973),
del director español Carlos Saura, haciendo especial énfasis en la
relación entre la fallida memoria del personaje de Luis y el trauma
colectivo de la Guerra Civil española. En La prima Angélica, filme
galardonado con el Premio del Jurado en el festival de Cannes, Saura
cuestiona la historia oficial legitimada por el régimen de Franco sin
necesidad de acudir a una retórica abiertamente política. De un modo
similar a la magdalena proustiana, pasado y presente chocan abrup-
tamente en la mente de Luis (José Luis López Vázquez), un hombre
de edad madura que es asaltado por recuerdos de opresión sexual y
adoctrinamiento religioso durante una breve visita a Segóvia, ciudad
en la que vivió los años de la Guerra Civil (1936-1939) junto a la
familia de su tía materna. En 1973, casi cuarenta años después de la
contienda, Luis vuelve a Segóvia para trasladar los restos de su difunta
madre al panteón familiar.

Saura lleva a cabo desplazamientos temporales desde 1973 a 1936
pero, en contra de la convención realista, hace que sea el mismo actor

160 MESTER, VOL. XXXVI (2007)

El recuerdo fracturado de la Guerra Civil española 161

el que represente los papeles de niño en 1936 y adulto en 1973, sin
recurrir a ningún tipo de maquillaje o cambio de ropa. Como conse-
cuencia de esto, las transiciones temporales no se corresponden con
una gama distinta de significantes en el cuerpo del personaje, excepto
los signos faciales y el tono de voz que maneja López Vázquez.

El presente ensayo se compone de tres partes. En la primera
sección comienzo por situar la Guerra Civil española en el contexto
histórico-político de la época, para después explicar la singularidad
de La prima Angélica en relación con el resto de la filmografía de
Saura. En la segunda parte analizo el procedimiento a través del cual
el director español vulnera las convenciones cinematográficas que dis-
tinguen entre pasado y presente, y el modo en el que Saura privilegia
el recuerdo individual por encima de la historia oficial. En la tercera y
última sección de este ensayo propongo una revisión fenomenológica
de La prima Angélica, en consonancia con el afán que Saura muestra
por incorporar las experiencias del pasado en el horizonte de com-
prensión del presente. Junto a Jan Mukarovsky, quien desarrolla la
dualidad artefacto/objeto estético en el seno de la Escuela de Praga,
me referiré a la historicidad de la comprensión en los términos estable-
cidos por Gadamer. Trataré además de incorporar una aproximación
hermenéutica desde el campo de la teoría del trauma.

Hasta la fecha, han sido dos los autores que más atención han
prestado al problema de la memoria en La prima Angélica. Ignacio
Sánchez Vidal analiza la película en su estudio El cine de Carlos Saura
(1988), publicado hace casi ya dos décadas; mientras que Vicente
Sánchez-Biosca presta especial atención al filme en su reciente libro
sobre el cine y la guerra civil española (2006). Sánchez Vidal incor-
pora documentación muy relevante para comprender la génesis y la
recepción del filme de Saura, desde extractos del guión original hasta
artículos publicados por la prensa franquista. Sánchez-Biosca, por su
parte, estudia La caza y La prima Angélica en un capítulo de su libro
que se titula, muy significativamente, "La España imposible: traumas,
retornos y exilios." Además, la compilación de entrevistas publicada
por Linda M. Willem en 2003 constituye un excelente punto de par-
tida para conocer las poéticas de Saura. Reconociendo la importancia
de estos estudios previos, me propongo profundizar en la forma en la
que la ruptura de la convención realista en La prima Angélica se arti-
cula mediante una relación dialéctica con la fragilidad de la memoria
del personaje de Luis.

162 Andrés Pérez Simón

Para facilitar la comprensión de este ensayo a los lectores no fami-
liarizados con la Guerra Civil española, presentaré a continuación un
breve resumen de la historia de la contienda bélica. El 14 de abril de
1931, el rey Alfonso XIII abandona el poder después de un significa-
tivo ascenso de los partidos republicanos en las elecciones municipales,
celebradas dos días antes. El exilio del rey marca el comienzo de la II
República, un ambicioso proyecto democrático que se irá erosionando
paulatinamente hasta desembocar en la guerra de 1936. A finales de
1931, el nuevo parlamento aprueba una Constitución que altera con-
siderablemente la estructura socioeconómica de España. Entre otras
medidas, se instituye el carácter laico de la nación, se requisan tierras
de la iglesia y se otorga el voto a las mujeres. Esta política reformista,
con Manuel Azaña al mando del gobierno, encuentra la oposición de
los sectores más conservadores, afines a la iglesia y a los terratenientes.
Conviene tener en cuenta que el comienzo de los años treinta no es
precisamente el mejor periodo para el nacimiento de una democracia
liberal en Europa, ya que Mussolini y Hitler están en el poder en Italia
y Alemania, respectivamente, y Stalin hace lo propio en la Unión
Soviética. Después de la victoria de las fuerzas de la izquierda — el
frente popular — en las elecciones de febrero de 1936, varios sectores
del ejército español comienzan a planificar un golpe de Estado. En los
últimos días de la II República, el socialista Largo Caballero llega al
gobierno y anuncia la inminente "dictadura del proletariado," mien-
tras se suceden las agresiones y actos vandálicos contra periódicos y
organizaciones de izquierda y derecha. El 17 de julio de 1936, tres
militares dirigen un levantamiento militar: José Sanjurjo, Emilio Mola
y Francisco Franco. Aunque el golpe de Estado es reprimido por las
autoridades, el levantamiento da lugar al estallido de la Guerra Civil.
El 18 de juho, un día después del alzamiento, el país está ya sumido
en la guerra fratricida.

El 1 de octubre de 1936, Franco es nombrado jefe de Estado en la
ciudad de Burgos. El nombramiento tiene lugar a menos de tres meses
del estallido de la guerra, cuando España está todavía dividida entre el
bando nacional y el republicano, éste último todavía gobierno legítimo
de la II República. El bando nacional, dirigido por Franco, va sumando
territorios hasta conquistar Madrid el 1 de abril de 1939, fecha oficial
del final de la contienda. La victoria de las fuerzas conservadoras habría
sido imposible sin el apoyo logístico de los ejércitos italiano y alemán,
que utilizan España como un banco de pruebas de lo que luego será

El recuerdo fracturado de la Guerra Civil española 1 63

la Segunda Guerra Mundial. Por el contrario, el bando republicano
no recibe el apoyo de las democracias occidentales, ya que Francia,
Reino Unido y Estados Unidos se declaran neutrales tras el estallido del
conflicto. Ante la falta de apoyo de estas naciones, la República pasa
a depender casi exclusivamente de la Unión Soviética, que suministra
armamento bélico a un alto coste, y condiciona las decisiones del ago-
nizante gobierno republicano a las políticas dictadas desde Moscú.

Se estima que en estos tres años mueren al menos medio millón
de personas, y tras el final de la guerra se inicia una dictadura que
se extiende hasta 1975, año de la muerte de Franco. A pesar de sus
afinidades con los fascistas, el gobierno español no llega a participar
en la Segunda Guerra Mundial. Al hacerse inminente la derrota de
Italia y Alemania, Franco lleva a cabo un progresivo alejamiento de
las dos naciones que tanto le habían ayudado a conquistar el poder.
En la década de los cuarenta, Franco impone a la población los valo-
res ultraconservadores del denominado "nacionalcatolicismo" pero,
al mismo tiempo, se preocupa de que su ideología no sea tachada
de fascista por las potencias aliadas. Este viraje ideológico se hace
patente en la propia industria cinematográfica, puesto que se pasa de
la retórica totalitaria en filmes propagandísticos como Raza y Rojo
y negro, ambos de 1942, a una significativa "ausencia de referencias
[a la guerral entre 1943 y 1949" (Sánchez-Biosca 149). En la década
de los cincuenta, el régimen franquista obtiene la legitimación de los
Estados Unidos, especialmente a partir de los tratados de 1953, al
cimentar su proyecto de Estado en la defensa de la civilización cris-
tiana ante el ateísmo de la Unión Soviética.'

Tanto en la guerra como en la posguerra, la iglesia española
aparece como un pilar fundamental en el aparato de legitimación
ideológica de las autoridades franquistas. No hay sector de la vida
sociocultural, desde el sistema educativo a la censura de películas,
que no sea controlado por representantes de la iglesia católica. La
ya mencionada idea del nacionalcatolicismo, peculiar adaptación del
nacionalsocialismo hitleriano, evidencia hasta qué punto religión y
política marchan unidas en el régimen de Franco. En las escuelas, las
iglesias y los medios de comunicación se legitima el levantamiento
militar alegando que el golpe franquista fue en realidad una "cruzada"
cristiana contra la amenaza comunista y atea de la II República.

Cuando estalla la guerra, en julio de 1936, Saura cuenta apenas
con cuatro años de edad. Entre 1936 y 1939 vive junto a su familia

164 Andrés Pérez Simón

los sufrimientos de la contienda en Madrid, Valencia y Barcelona. El
recuerdo de aquellos años de dolor e incertidumbre quedará marcado
para siempre en el futuro director de cine.- En 1974, un año después
de terminar La prima Angélica^ Saura habla así de sus recuerdos de
infancia y del personaje de Luis:

Nunca he estado de acuerdo, tal vez a causa de mi expe-
riencia personal, con esa afirmación comúnmente extendida
que asegura que la infancia es la época dorada de la vida.
Me parece, por el contrario, que la infancia es una época
particularmente insegura, porque, entre otras cosas, es
vivida enteramente por un mundo interpuesto, que se
desarrolla a través de grandes miedos, de carencias de todo
tipo. Y todo esto deja una huella profunda, imborrable,
sobre todo cuando, como en el personaje de mi película,
tiene que vivir en el seno de un medio hostil. (Saura citado
en Sánchez Vidal 84)

La Prima Angélica no constituye el único trabajo del cineasta aragonés
en el que está presente el recuerdo de la guerra fratricida. De diferente
manera, el trauma de la contienda aparece también en La caza (1965),
El jardín de las delicias (1970), Dulces horas (1981) y ¡Ay Carmela!
(1990). En La caza, Saura aborda el tema de manera indirecta para
poder evitar la censura franquista. El mismo título de la película
sugiere ya la semejanza entre salir a matar conejos y asesinar republi-
canos, sobre todo teniendo en cuenta que el paraje al que acuden los
cuatro amigos fue escenario de la guerra. Además, uno de los cazado-
res es un consumado francotirador que destacó en las filas nacionales.^
En cambio, en El jardín de las delicias. La prima Angélica y Dulces
horas el director español examina el trauma colectivo de la Guerra
Civil a través de los recuerdos y vivencias de sus personajes, quienes
sufren de amnesia y se sienten frustrados al intentar reconstruir su
pasado vital. En }Ay Carmela!, ya quince años después de la muerte
de Franco, Saura aborda sin tapujos el tema de la guerra mediante una
comedia que transcurre linealmente hacia un final trágico.

El jardín de las delicias y La prima Angélica representan la culmi-
nación de un progresivo alejamiento de Saura respecto del realismo
imperante en el cine español durante los años cincuenta y principios de
los sesenta. Hasta bien entrados los sesenta, la posibilidad de combatir

El recuerdo fracturado de la Guerra Civil española 1 65

la ideología oficial parecía únicamente posible mediante de la adapta-
ción de motivos del neorrealismo italiano. Como señala Juan Cobos,
en películas como Ladrón de bicicletas (1948), de Vittorio de Sica,
"[. . .] había paro, seres ateridos, infraviviendas, niños que trabaja-
ban antes de la edad sin poder acudir al colegio, carencia de aguas en
las casas [. . .]" (61), elementos que convenientemente trasplantados
a la realidad española dejan abierto cierto espacio de denuncia. En
literatura, el realismo de posguerra monopoliza la mayor parte de la
escena artística hasta principios de los sesenta, cuando llegan nuevas
corrientes europeas y la novela del boom latinoamericano. El Jar ama,
novela publicada por Rafael Sánchez Ferlosio en 1962, constituye un
ejemplo extremo de realismo literario, lindante con el conductismo.
En El] arama, el narrador imita a una cámara que registra desde fuera
el día de unos muchachos en el río. Como resultado de ello, el lector
tiene que inferir la psicología de los personajes a partir de sus movi-
mientos y acciones, ya que carece de acceso a la mente de éstos. En
sus inicios como director, Saura se muestra fascinado por esta manera
de retratar las estancadas vidas de los jóvenes españoles dando prio-
ridad al showing ante el telling. Como señala Agustín Sánchez Vidal,
el montaje final de la película Los golfos (1959-1962) contiene una
escena del río Manzanares que supone un homenaje a El Jarama,
"[. . .] novela que Saura quiso adaptar durante algún tiempo" (29).

Tras sus dos primeras películas, Los golfos y Llanto por un ban-
dido (1963), La caza marca el inicio del periodo de madurez estética
de Saura. Aunque La caza se sustenta en un estatuto de ficción escru-
pulosamente realista, es éste el primer filme en el que Saura se aleja
de postulados objetivistas o neorrealistas. Resulta muy significativo
que, en distintos momentos de la película, el director aragonés incluya
planos de los protagonistas acompañados por su monólogo interior.
Se trata de la primera película en la que Saura trabaja con Elias
Querejeta, quien tras fundar su productora en 1963, le ofrecerá apoyo
económico, protección ante la censura del régimen y ayuda en la difu-
sión de su obra en festivales internacionales (Caparros 139-144).

La carencia de identidad del individuo que pierde su memoria
resulta patente en El jardín de las delicias. En esta película, la familia
del empresario Antonio Cano intenta hacerle recuperar la memoria
después de su accidente de coche, no tanto por compasión hacia el
hombre sino por un motivo mucho más mundano: se trata de que
Cano recuerde el número de la cuenta bancaria en Suiza en la que

1 66 Andrés Pérez Simón

guarda su dinero. Para combatir la amnesia del personaje, los familia-
res de Cano escenifican distintos episodios de su vida con la esperanza
de activar su recuerdo. Éste es el primer filme de Saura en el que los
actores José Luis López Vázquez y Lina Canalejas representan dos
edades distintas sin que tenga lugar cambio alguno de maquillaje o
de ropa. En La prima Angélica, Saura elige a los mismos actores para
explotar este recurso antiilusionista de una manera mucho más ambi-
ciosa. El potencial semántico de este último trabajo nace precisamente
de la interrelación entre la técnica fílmica y el tema que Saura plantea:
la fragilidad de la memoria. Una gran diferencia entre las dos películas
es que, mientras que la convención realista no se ve amenazada en El
jardín de las delicias, resulta mucho más complicado definir el estatuto
ontológico de varias escenas en La Prima Angélica. Saura construye la
primera película a partir de la focalización externa, para luego presen-
tar "the exteriorized dramatization of memory and history" (Vernon
129) mediante unos personajes que presentan breves obras teatrales
ante el amnésico Antonio Cano. En cambio, La prima Angélica con-
tiene momentos de focalización interna que dan lugar a la inclusión
de imágenes oníricas — por ejemplo, la escena inicial del bombardeo
del colegio — que se pueden asignar a la falible mente de Luis.

Iniciaré la segunda parte de este ensayo con un resumen argumen-
tai de la película, para después proceder a analizar algunas escenas
específicas. Después de la mencionada escena del bombardeo, el
espectador presencia la exhumación de los restos de un cadáver en
el monasterio de Montjuic en Barcelona. Los huesos contenidos en
la bolsa son los de la madre de Luis, fallecida veinte años atrás. La
idea de Luis es llevar los restos hasta Segóvia, ciudad originaria de
su madre, para depositarlos en el panteón familiar según la voluntad
de ella. La vuelta a Segóvia sume a Luis en un estado de ansiedad y
desconcierto, después de casi cuatro décadas sin visitar la pequeña
ciudad castellana. El hombre se siente desorientado al revivir el dolor
que experimentó en esta ciudad durante el verano de 1936, cuando
sus padres lo dejaron con la familia de su tía Pilar mientras ellos se
quedaban en Madrid. Lo que en principio iba a ser una simple estan-
cia veraniega se convirtió en una traumática separación después de
estallar la Guerra Civil.

La vuelta a Segóvia reaviva en Luis los complejos no superados
de su niñez: el amor hacia su prima Angélica, que ahora es una mujer
y cuya hija, también llamada Angélica, le recuerda a la niña que

El recuerdo fracturado de la Guerra Civil española 167

conoció; el temor a la sexualidad inculcado por los curas en Segóvia; y
el miedo hacia la rígida figura del padre, quien como comunista y ateo
fue responsable de las matanzas de la guerra a ojos de la familia de
su madre. El niño Luisito, tremendamente dependiente de su madre,
tuvo que ver como ésta volvía a Madrid mientras él quedaba con una
familia de fuertes convicciones religiosas, una familia que apoyó el
levantamiento militar contra la II República.

Las memorias de estos años asaltan al Luis adulto a lo largo de
toda la película, bien a través de un estímulo sensorial, como cuando
oye a su tía tocar una canción en el piano; o al encontrarse con un
conocido de la infancia, como el antiguo compañero de colegio Felipe
Sagún, quien es un sacerdote en 1973. Sin embargo, no se trata úni-
camente de un doloroso proceso de descubrimiento individual, ya que
hacia el final del filme la adulta Angélica se derrumba y le confiesa su
frustración vital. Su matrimonio con Anselmo carece de sentido más
allá de las apariencias de famiUa burguesa, motivo por el que Angélica
busca desesperadamente consuelo en Luis, el primo a quien no había
visto durante más de cuarenta años. Luis, quien a sus años sigue
soltero y parece insensible a cualquier afecto, rechaza en un primer
momento a Angélica. Sin embargo, no podrá evitar los recuerdos de
su amor infantil en las últimas escenas de la película, en las cuales la
ambigüedad hace imposible distinguir con total seguridad qué acon-
tecimientos pertenecen a 1936 y cuáles a 1973.

La tensión semántica que se produce cuando dos actores de edad
madura representan tanto a unos niños como a unos adultos llega a
su punto culminante en la escena 24. Luis y Angélica adulta suben a la
buhardilla de su tía para buscar recuerdos de su niñez y, tras encontrar
unos cuadernos escolares, comienzan a leerlos sentados en el tejado.
En este momento de la película, el espectador ya sabe que la mujer
está siendo engañada por su marido Anselmo, ya que ella misma ha
confesado su infelicidad a Luis durante un momento de intimidad.
Los dos adultos comienzan a besarse en el tejado hasta que una voz
masculina llama a Angélica desde el interior de la casa. Sin embargo,
no se trata de su marido sino de Miguel, el padre de la niña Angélica
en 1936, quien viste la camisa azul de la Falange Española. Se ha
producido un nuevo deslizamiento temporal dentro de una misma
escena, sin ninguna indicación formal por parte de Saura. Pero, más
allá de este recurso técnico, queda una pregunta imposible de con-
testar con total certeza: ¿son Luis y la mujer Angélica los que se han

168 Andrés Pérez Simón

besado o, al contrario, se trata de un beso infantil entre Luisito y la
niña Angélica? Es el espectador el único que puede interpretar este
espacio de indeterminación.

Como ya se ha indicado, Saura propone una reescritura de las téc-
nicas cinematográficas canónicas. Pasado y presente se entrelazan en La
prima Angélica, mientras el personaje de Luis es asaltado por recuerdos
de la opresión ideológica, religiosa y sexual que tuvo que sufrir en la
España de los tardíos años treinta. En La prima Angélica se suceden
escenas pertenecientes a 1973 y 1936 pero, en ciertos momentos, los dos
tiempos confluyen sin necesidad de marcadores canónicos de transición
temporal. Pero, ¿qué técnicas utiliza Saura para apartarse de las con-
venciones cinematográficas? Para Justo Villafañe y Norberto Mínguez,
una de las operaciones convencionalmente asociadas al salto atrás en el
tiempo es el "cambio de aspecto (vestimenta, apariencia visual, edad)
del personaje narrador al ser representado visualmente en el flashback''''
(204). Otro procedimiento para transmitir cambio de tiempo en el cine
realista consiste en alterar el ambiente sonoro. Estas dos operaciones o,
mejor dicho, la violación de estas dos normas convencionales, adquieren
una importancia capital en La prima Angélica.

Para comprender este ataque a las convenciones fílmicas, es
necesario tener en cuenta los roles del plano y de la escena en la idea
moderna de montaje, desarrollada fundamentalmente a partir de la
segunda década del siglo pasado. A nadie escapa que, después de
directores como David W. Griffith y Sergei M. Eisenstein, el concepto
de montaje se constituye como un elemento central del arte fílmico.
Si en los comienzos del cine la cámara permanece inmóvil mientras
registra la acción de los actores, con el avance del montaje las escenas
pasan a ser concebidas como un ensamblaje de planos. Los planos se
organizan como partes de una unidad superior, la escena, que sigue
funcionando como un continuo espacio-temporal. La composición de
escenas mediante planos hace necesaria la institución del raccord, que
no es sino el "[. . .] elemento que permite al espectador orientarse en
el espacio diegético y que hace que esos cambios de plano con con-
tinuidad o proximidad espacial apenas sean perceptibles" (Villafañe
y Mínguez 210). Para mantener la continuidad entre planos hay que
mantener distintos tipos de raccord, como son los de iluminación,
los de sonido, y la posición de los personajes. En La prima Angélica,
Saura vulnera especialmente el raccord de posición, el cual indica
que los personajes siguen estando en el mismo lugar aunque no estén

El recuerdo fracturado de la Guerra Civil española 169

visibles en el plano. En contra de esta operación, Saura cambia la dis-
tribución de personajes al abrir y cerrar los planos, ya que sustituye a
los personajes de 1973 por ellos mismos en 1936. Esta alteración de
la continuidad temporal se hace especialmente patente en la segunda
mitad de la película, a partir del momento en el que Luis vuelve a
Segóvia después de haber intentado huir en un primer momento.

Para explicar este procedimiento, analizaré a continuación la
tercera escena de La prima Angélica, en la que el pasado y el presente
de Luis se confunden por primera vez. A punto de llegar a Segóvia
desde Barcelona, Luis detiene el coche para andar un poco y observar
desde lejos la ciudad que no visita desde hace décadas. Saura com-
bina entonces una panorámica del campo con Segóvia a lo lejos, que
se corresponde con la visión subjetiva de Luis, con planos externos
del personaje caminando por la carretera. Cuando oye el ruido de
un coche que se detiene fuera de escena, Luis gira el cuello hacia su
derecha y, al mismo tiempo, Saura abre el enfoque de la cámara para
dar a conocer qué está sucediendo. Al abrirse el plano, puede verse a
los padres de Luis bajarse de un coche antiguo, ataviados con ropa
de los años treinta. La madre moja un pañuelo en agua de colonia
y lo aplica a Luis, mientras le dice que así le pasará el mareo por el
viaje en coche. En este momento, José Luis López Vázquez no está
representado el papel de Luis, un adulto apático e introspectivo, sino
el de Luisito, un niño nervioso e inseguro.

Después de que la madre alivie el mareo de Luisito, éste pronun-
cia sus primeras palabras en la película. Debido a su relevancia, creo
necesario citar este diálogo inicial entre el niño y sus padres:

Luisito: Mamá, yo no quiero ir con la abuela. Quiero que-
darme con vosotros.

Madre: Lo mismo dijiste el verano pasado. Menuda llorera.
Y luego lo bien que lo pasaste. ¿Ya no re acuerdas? Este año
eres mayor y no vas a llorar, ¿verdad?
L: Yo quiero estar siempre con vosotros.
M: No es posible, hijo. Enseguida vendremos a buscarte.
Un mes pasa enseguida. No seas tonto.
Padre: ¡Vamos, Luisa, que se hace tarde!
M: Lo vas a pasar estupendamente. Acuérdate el año
pasado: no querías volver a Madrid.
P: Sí, hombre, sí, ¡como Dios lo vas a pasar con esas brujas!

170 Andrés Pérez Simón

Cuando Luisito y su madre hablan cara a cara, Saura los presenta
desde un plano muy corto, casi un primer plano. Sin embargo, lo que
más me interesa es hacer notar el rendimiento semántico que obtiene
el director cuando muestra, a través de un plano general, a los tres per-
sonajes camino del coche familiar. Considero que, en este momento,
Saura ya ha trazado las líneas básicas en la correlación de fuerzas. Por
un lado aparece la madre, que trata con cariño a su hijo mientras se
esfuerza en rescribir sus recuerdos para así paliar el trauma de la sepa-
ración ("¿Ya no te acuerdas?" "Acuérdate el año pasado"). Por el otro
lado, el autoritario padre interviene primero para cortar la conversa-
ción y, después, para desacreditar las palabras de la mujer ("¡como
Dios lo vas a pasar con esas brujas!"). Y, finalmente, emerge Luisito,
el hijo que sólo se atreve a comunicar sus sentimientos ante su madre
y que, cuando interviene el padre, se muestra sumiso. Es evidente que
Saura se aleja de los patrones del cine reahsta al combinar dos espa-
cios y tiempos distintos. Junto a esta maniobra puede detectarse un
segundo procedimiento antiilusionista, el cual consiste en la repetición
parcial de una escena de la película. En la primera escena del filme se
observa a unos niños entre los escombros de un colegio bombardeado,
con la imagen acompañada por una música de coro religioso que ha
sido incorporada en el proceso de montaje. Esta escena reaparece en
el tramo final de la película con variaciones en el color de la imagen
y, sobre todo, con el sonido de las bombas al caer sobre el colegio."*
La imposibilidad de esclarecer por completo la ontologia de estas
imágenes (¿son alucinaciones de Luis? ¿Son recuerdos fidedignos?)
muestra de qué modo la técnica fílmica entra en estrecha relación con
la imposibilidad de reconstruir unos recuerdos traumáticos.

Creo que el estudio de la situación psíquica de Luis puede bene-
ficiarse de la aplicación de los últimos desarrollos en la teoría del
trauma, como los propuestos por Angelika Rauch, en una línea que
incorpora la tradición hermenéutica de Gadamer. Rauch aplica el con-
cepto de historicidad de la comprensión a la práctica del psicoanálisis,
reclamando así la importancia del sujeto interpretativo en relación con
el hecho que originó el trauma. En palabras de Rauch: "Emphasis on
the reality of traumatic shock (as abuse, stress, accident, and so on),
however important it may be, loses sight of a hermeneutic dimen-
sión of psychoanalytic therapy [. . .] the question of how meanings
are associated or bound to the understanding of life's events" (112).
Werner Bohleber, en un reciente trabajo sobre la reconstrucción del

El recuerdo fracturado de la Guerra Civil española 1 71

recuerdo y el psicoanálisis, ha incidido en el hecho de que "[. . .j el
análisis de trastornos tempranos nos ha enseñado cuan deformado y
distorsionado puede estar el material autobiográfico por los procesos
de escisión" (110). De su estudio se deduce que la reaparición de
recuerdos traumáticos en el paciente no consiste en un simple fenó-
meno de "repeticiones puras" (120), sino que hay distintos factores
conscientes o inconscientes que alteran estos flashbacks. En el caso
concreto de La prima Angélica, puede observarse que los recuerdos de
Luis están lejos de ser exactos en numerosas ocasiones. La vuelta a la
casa de su tía se traduce en recuerdos como la ejecución de su padre
por parte de un pelotón de fusilamiento franquista. Sin embargo, este
flashback no se corresponde con la realidad, pues el padre sigue vivo
en 1973. De un modo similar, una visita al salón de actos de su anti-
guo colegio le hace recordar la película Los ojos de Londres, pero las
imágenes que ahora cree volver a ver no pertenecen a una película de
misterio sino a un apocalíptico filme de ciencia ficción.

Quiero iniciar ahora la tercera y última sección de este ensayo,
en la que compararé mi interpretación de la película con la recepción
original de 1973. Hay que tener muy en cuenta que, al evitar una con-
figuración unívoca y cerrada, Saura plantea La prima Angélica como
una estructura artística deliberadamente abierta a la concretización del
espectador. Siguiendo la terminología propuesta por Jan Mukarovsky,
puede afirmarse que el artefacto permanece invariable mientras que
el objeto estético en 2007 es diferente al que la comunidad receptora
produjo después del estreno de la película en 1974. Mukarovsky se
adelanta varias décadas a la Estética de la Recepción cuando afirma
a finales de los años treinta:

Al juzgar una obra artística, no juzgamos el artefacto mate-
rial, sino el 'objeto estético,' que es el equivalente inmaterial
de dicho artefacto en nuestra conciencia, resultado del
encuentro de los estímulos generados por la obra con la tra-
dición estética viva, que pertenece a la colectividad. El objeto
estético está sujeto a cambios, aunque siempre se refiere a
una misma obra material. Los cambios del objeto estético
se producen cuando la obra penetra en nuevos ambientes
sociales, diferentes del de su origen [. . .] En el curso del
tiempo una obra materialmente idéntica puede asumir suce-
sivamente toda una serie de objetos estéticos muy diferentes

172 Andrés Pérez Simón

entre sí, cada uno de los cuales corresponderá a otra etapa
evolutiva de la estructura del arte dado. (225)

El espectador siempre activa su propia enciclopedia de conocimien-
tos a la hora de dar sentido a la propuesta artística pero, y esto es
un factor clave, nunca puede permanecer completamente ajeno a las
circunstancias socioculturales de su propio tiempo. Por lo tanto, al
preguntarse "¿qué significa La prima Angélica}" hay que tener en
cuenta que la película está lejos de contener un significado oculto que
permanece invariable ante el paso del tiempo. No es de extrañar que el
propio Saura se niegue a contestar a esos entrevistadores que quieren
oír de su boca la explicación "definitiva" (Willem xi) del significado de
sus películas. El cineasta aragonés siempre ha mantenido que, una vez
terminado el rodaje, corresponde al espectador determinar el potencial
semántico de la película. En el caso de La prima Angélica, se puede
comprobar que las respuestas del público han variado según la época.
Después de su estreno en 1974, los grupos ultraderechistas atacaron
varios cines en los que se proyectaba el filme porque consideraban que
se trataba de una mofa directa a los sagrados valores nacionalcatóli-
cos. Jesús Vasallo, periodista adscrito al régimen, criticó duramente a
Saura por ridiculizar a la Falange Española (Sánchez Pascual 86). En
la misma línea política, muchos izquierdistas españoles acogieron La
prima Angélica como un ataque frontal a los ganadores de la Guerra
Civil. Albert Turro, por ejemplo, destacó el "feroz anticlericalismo"
de Saura en una crítica publicada después del estreno.

Treinta años después de la muerte de Franco, La prima Angélica
sigue constituyendo el retrato del infierno personal de un niño durante
la Guerra Civil española. Luis sigue traumatizado por una doble
catástrofe: el enfrentamiento que destruye su país y da lugar a una
larga dictadura, y la ruptura de la armonía familiar que se produce
a causa de la división ideológica. Al volver a Segóvia vuelve a expe-
rimentar el dolor de haberse separado de su madre durante los tres
años de guerra, y de ver luego cómo la familia materna rompe toda
relación con su padre debido a las inquietudes izquierdistas de éste.
En 1973, cuando Saura termina la película, Franco gobierna todavía
España y no es posible plantear un debate abierto sobre las causas
de la contienda. La reacción de Luis al visitar Segóvia muestra hasta
qué punto este adulto ha interiorizado como pecado propio unos
acontecimientos de los que en nada se le puede hacer responsable. La

El recuerdo fracturado de la Guerra Civil española 1 73

imposibilidad de una reconstrucción colectiva del pasado condena a
Luis a asumir una culpa que le ha sido impuesta desde fuera. Bohleber
explica que esta autoinculpación es frecuente entre aquellos que han
sido víctimas de catástrofes humanas y que no han tenido después
acceso a un ejercicio de memoria colectiva:

Engarzar tales experiencias traumáticas en un contexto
narrativo no es algo que pueda conseguir el individuo parti-
cular en un acto idiosincrásico, sino que precisa también de
un debate social sobre la verdad histórica del suceder trau-
mático así como sobre su renegación y rechazo [. . .] En el
caso de que predominen las tendencias sociales de rechazo
o los pactos de silencio, los supervivientes traumatizados
se quedan solos con sus experiencias. En vez de encontrar
apoyo en la comprensión de los demás, es frecuente que
sea la propia culpa la que se erija entre ellos en principio
explicativo. (122-123)

Tras la muerte de Franco en 1975, se inicia un proceso de renovación
de las estructuras políticas, sociales y económicas que culmina con la
implantación de la democracia en España. Al desaparecer la dictadura,
el espectador ya no confronta La prima Angélica como el drama de
alguien a quien no se le permite voz propia, puesto que la situación
política en España está normalizada. De ahí que la mayor amplitud
de nuestra perspectiva actual facilite una interpretación de la pelí-
cula menos sujeta a condicionamientos ideológicos, sin necesidad de
explicar cada escena como un ataque velado a la dictadura. Aunque
la pervivencia del pasado en la mente de Luis remite a las heridas
no cicatrizadas de la guerra, es posible leer hoy La prima Angélica
en clave más intimista, anteponiendo el drama personal al colectivo.
Conviene no olvidar que en la película la sexualidad del protagonista
queda reprimida de por vida, ya que Luis sigue soltero y solitario en
su edad adulta. No es casualidad que, en la escena de Luisito vestido
de romano en la iglesia, el salto del presente al pasado se produzca
mientras Luis observa el cuadro San Sebastián de José de Ribera. Esta
pintura muestra el dolor del mártir y a la vez contiene un cierto grado
de erotismo, ya que el santo aparece desnudo. Luisito, que coquetea
con la niña Angélica en la iglesia, nunca podrá superar el sentimiento
de culpa que le fue inculcado en su infancia.

174 Andrés Pérez Simón

Saura refuerza el dolor, la culpa y el deseo sexual de Luis/Luisito
mediante el símbolo arquetípico de la sangre. La sangre, presente
en el cuadro del santo traspasado por las flechas, también aparece
en una pintura en casa de la tía Pilar. La tenebrosa imagen de una
monja con llagas en las manos y un gusano saliendo del corazón no
sólo aterra al niño Luisito, sino que pervive en las pesadillas cuando
el hombre vuelve a Segóvia en 1973. Precisamente, cuando Luis sufre
esta pesadilla en la casa de su anciana tía se produce un salto temporal
cargado de enorme significación. Después de despertarse asustado, el
hombre va a la cocina para beber un vaso de agua y entonces advierte
que unas gotas de sangre están cayendo junto a él. Cuando el plano
se abre Saura muestra a la niña Angélica en 1936, con la mano en
la nariz después de recibir supuestamente un golpe de Luisito. En el
despertar sexual de los dos niños, esta sangre connota el tránsito de
niña a mujer en Angélica.

La sumisión de Luis hacia la figura del padre también constituye
otro poderoso elemento arquetípico.^ Al igual que sucede con la
represión eclesiástica, la lectura puramente ideológica no es la única
que está contenida en la película. De vuelta a 1936, es evidente que
la ideología del padre de Luisito ha provocado la separación de la
familia, ya que la familia de la madre es conservadora y el padre es
socialista. El adulto Luis nunca podrá superar el vacío de la figura
paterna, como se muestra en el cementerio de Barcelona en la segunda
escena del filme. La frialdad de las relaciones entre padre e hijo queda
de manifiesto cuando el ya anciano progenitor no se molesta en salir
del coche mientras Luis presencia de pie el traslado de los restos de
su difunta madre. El miedo que Luis sufre hacia la figura del padre le
lleva a confundir, de vuelta a Segóvia, al marido de su prima Angélica
con el tío falangista que conoció en 1936. Saura potencia esta confu-
sión al utilizar al actor Fernando Delgado para los papeles de Anselmo
(marido de Angélica en 1973) y Miguel (padre de la niña Angélica en
1936), aunque en este caso el actor cambia de atuendo y el cambio
de tiempo resulta fácilmente identificable. Luis identifica al esposo de
Angélica con el autoritario tío que participó en el alzamiento de julio
del 36, porque para él estos dos personajes representan un mismo rol
opresor. Es tal el trauma que sufre Luis que le resulta incapaz com-
prender que un hombre de cincuenta años en 1973 no pueda ser el
mismo adulto en 1936, a pesar de que la familia intente demostrárselo
con fotografías.

El recuerdo fracturado de la Guerra Civil española

175

Luis identifica los dos roles masculinos porque en 1973 su
sumisión ante el cabeza de familia no es política sino sexual, ya que
todavía siente un deseo frustrado hacia la mujer que antes fue la
niña Angélica. En la última escena de la película, Saura encierra a los
dos hombres en la misma habitación después de que se produzca un
último salto atrás en el tiempo: una patrulla militar ha capturado a
Luisito y a la niña Angélica intentando huir de Segóvia en bicicleta. El
gran impacto de esta escena se debe al hecho de que Saura condensa
las relaciones de poder que han estado latentes en toda la película. El
fascista Miguel camina seguro de sí mismo, armado con un cinturón,
dispuesto a castigar al indefenso Luisito. El niño aguanta los golpes
arrodillado, ahogando sus gritos. Considerando que los dos personajes
están representados por actores adultos, la escena puede interpretarse
no sólo como el castigo de Miguel a Luisito, sino de Anselmo a Luis.
En conclusión, puede hablarse de la interpretación actual de La prima
Angélica en términos de un viraje hacia constantes antropológicas en
detrimento de mensajes ideológicos coyunturales.

En su conocido relato "Fierre Menard, autor del Quijote," Borges
concibe la historia de un imaginario escritor francés que vive obsesio-
nado con escribir un libro que sea palabra por palabra igual que el de
Cervantes. Para Menard, la cuestión no es escribir otro Quijote, sino
el Quijote. Manuel Asensi ha descrito brillantemente el empeño de
Menard como un conflicto entre dos hermenéuticas irreconciliables:
por un lado, la idea de románticos como NovaHs, quienes proclaman la
necesidad de identificarse al completo con el autor original para poder
comprenderlo; por el otro, la hermenéutica de Hans-Georg Gadamer,
quien entiende el acto de lectura como una fusión de horizontes de sen-
tido (249). Para Gadamer, como para Hans Robert Jauss y Paul Ricoeur
después, la comprensión del pasado sólo es posible cuando el intér-
prete incorpora su propio horizonte de comprensión. El cine de Saura
comparte esta convicción de que el acercamiento a un hecho pretérito
carece de validez si no se incorpora la experiencia del presente. De ahí
que el cineasta español recurra a un actor de edad adulta para repre-
sentar a la vez los papeles de hombre y de niño en La prima Angélica.
En palabras de Claire Clouzot, en el filme "[. . .] se siente así [. . .] la
fusión entre el hombre y el niño, con la fuerza que el recuerdo tiene en el
hombre adulto" (Clouzot citada en Sánchez Vidal 85). Como afirma el
propio Saura en una entrevista concedida en 1988: "I proceed from the
assumption that anyone without remembrances and past experiences is

176 Andrés Pérez Simón

2l nonentity. Everybody is that which he has lived, and if he loses this, he
remains naked, without any protection, devoid of everything. Therefore
I always insist that one cannot deny that which he has lived; his memory
must stay animated" (Saura citado en Zeul 107). La aparición de La
Prima Angélica en 1973 se explica precisamente como un intento de
reconstruir la memoria colectiva de España mediante la presentación
del trauma individual del personaje de Luis. Tras la muerte de Franco,
y una vez posibilitado un debate abierto sobre la guerra que dividió
España, la dominante semántica de La prima Angélica apunta más al
drama humano de un adulto que sigue siendo incapaz de disociar sus
instintos sexuales del sentimiento de culpa que le fue inculcado durante
su niñez.

Notas

1. Sánchez-Biosca explica cómo la Iglesia Católica se convirtió entonces
en el principal agente de propaganda del régimen franquista, una vez que
Franco se había alejado en la práctica de las versiones hispánicas del fascismo
europeo — la Falange Española y las JONS. Como ejemplos de películas que
exaltan los valores católicos ante la (supuesta) amenaza comunista, Sánchez-
Biosca menciona: La señora de Fátima (1951), Sor Intrépida (1952), La
guerra de Dios (1953), El beso de Judas (1953), El canto del gallo (1955)
y Un traje blanco (1956). El cineasta Juan Antonio Bardem estrena Muerte
de un ciclista en 1955, quizá la película que denuncia con mayor dureza la
hipocresía burguesa y nacionalcatólica durante las tres primeras décadas del
régimen franquista. No hay, en cualquier caso, mención explícita a la guerra
en Muerte de un ciclista.

2. En 1978, Saura publica en la edición española de Penthouse unas
notas bajo el título de "Recuerdo de una guerra civil," material en bruto del
que tomará numerosas imágenes para sus películas.

3. La censura obligó a suprimir una escena en la que un cura presidía la
matanza de un cerdo, porque se entendía que Saura estaba responsabilizando
a la iglesia española de las muertes de la Guerra Civil. Otro aspecto relevante
de La caza es que Luis Mayo, uno de los actores 'oficiales' del franquismo,
interpreta en La caza el papel de empresario déspota que se ha enriquecido
después de medrar. Es evidente que, para el público de la época, esta carac-
terización negativa de un actor pragmáticamente identificado con el régimen
no podía pasar desapercibida. Además, el personaje que interpreta Mayo
responde al nombre de Paco, una clara referencia a Francisco Franco que los
organismos de censura no vieron o no se molestaron en señalar.

El recuerdo fracturado de la Guerra Civil española 1 77

4. En la primera escena, en la que tanto el cura como los niños aparecen
quietos durante segundos antes de ponerse en movimiento no se trata de
imagen congelada, sino de unos actores que se quedan inmóviles. Los niños
se muestran estáticos, de manera completamente antinatural, antes de ponerse
en movimiento. Además, Saura elimina el sonido ambiente en esta escena
inicial, algo que acentúa el efecto de irrealidad. Mientras que en la segunda
escena del bombardeo se oyen todos los ruidos y gritos, estas primeras
imágenes sólo vienen acompañadas por música de coro religioso, como ya he
indicado. Por último, quiero referirme al color de la imagen como importante
elemento antirrealista en la escena inicial. El comedor del colegio se muestra
bajo un único tono grisáceo que elimina cualquier matiz en la pantalla. La
única excepción que, por supuesto, no resulta casual, viene producida por
el brillante color marrón de unas sillas que han permanecido inmunes al
bombardeo. Gracias a sus conocimientos de fotografía, Saura consigue que
el color de estas extrañas sillas sea el único que destaque entre la gama de
grises. Según Sánchez-Biosca, esta escena "no estaba prevista en el guión"
(219) y fue después del montaje final cuando Saura y Querejeta decidieron
situarla al comienzo de la película.

5. Como afirman Jean Chevalier y Alain Gheerbrant sobre la autori-
taria figura del padre: "He stands for ali figures of authority in education,
employment, the armed forces, the law, and for God himself. The role of the
father is regarded as one which discourages attempts at independence and
exercises an influence which impoversishes, constraints, undermines, renders
impotent and makes submissive" (372).

Obras citadas

Asensi, Manuel. Literatura y filosofía. Madrid: Síntesis, 1995.

Bohleber, Werner. "Recuerdo, trauma y memoria colectiva. La batalla por el

recuerdo en el psicoanálisis." Revista de Psicoanálisis de la Asociación

Psicoanalttica de Madrid 50 (2007): 105-131.
Brasó, Enrique. "New Interview with Carlos Saura on La Prima Angélica."

Carlos Saura. Interviews. Ed. Linda. M. Willem. 22-31.
Caparros Lera, José María. Historia crítica del cine español: desde 1897 hasta

hoy. Barcelona: Ariel, 1999.
Chevalier, Jean y Alain Gheerbrant. A Dictionary of Symbols. London:

Penguin, 1996.
Cobos, Juan. Ed. Las generaciones del cine español. Madrid: Sociedad Estatal

España Nuevo Milenio, 2000.
Gadamer, Hans-Georg. "Truth and Method." Rev. ed. Trans. Joel Weinsheimer

and Donald G. Marshall. New York: Continuam, 2000.

178 Andrés Pérez Simón

Mukarovsky, Jan. "¿Puede el valor estético tener validez universal?" Signo,

función, valor. Ed. Emil Volek. Bogotá: Plaza y Janes, 1999. 220-232.
Rauch, Angelika. "Post-Traumatic Hermeneutics: Melancholia in the Wake

of Trauma." Diacritics ISA (Winter 1998): 111-120.
Rubio Rubio, Miguel. "El cine de los años 60 y la transición." Las generacio-
nes del cine español. Ed. Juan Cobos. Madrid: Sociedad Estatal España

Nuevo Milenio, 2000. 66-79.
Sánchez-Biosca, Vicente. Cine y guerra civil española: del mito a la memoria.

Madrid: Alianza, 2006.
Sánchez Vidal, Agustín. El cine de Carlos Saura. Zaragoza: Caja de Ahorros

de la Inmaculada, 1988.
Saura, Carlos. La prima Angélica. España: 1973.
Triana-Toribio, Nuria. Spanish National Cinema. London: Routledge,

2003.
Turro, Albert. "La prima Angélica." Dirigido For 13 (1973). 15 de

octubre de 2007. http://www.cervantesvirtual.com/servlet/SirveObras/

06928407599169506454480/p0000001.htm#l
Vernon, Kathleen M. "The Language of Memory: The Spanish Civil War in

the Films of Carlos Saura." Rewriting the Good Fight. Criticai Essays on

the Literature of the Spanish Civil War. Eds. Frieda S. Brown et al. East

Lansing: Michigan State UP, 1989. \15-\A1.
Villafañe, Justo y Norberto Mínguez. Frincipios de teoría general de la

imagen. Madrid: Pirámide, 1996.
Willem, Linda M. Ed. Carlos Saura. Interviews. Jackson: UP of Mississippi,

2003.
Zeul, Mechthild. "Continuity, Rupture, Remembering: The Spanish Cinema

During Franco's Time." Carlos Saura. Interviews. Ed. Willem, Linda M.

Jackson: UP of Mississippi, 2003. 103-114.

Labyrinth without Walls: The Uncanny
and the Gothic Modes as Forms of
Haunting in La casa del padre by
Justo Navarro

Fiona Schouten

Radboud University Nijmegen

Only very recently, Spain has embraced the memory boom that cur-
rently characterizes most of the Western world, and started deahng
with its traumatic past. The year 2006 was declared Año de la memo-
ria, year of memory, and the themes of the Civil War of 1936-1939
and the ensuing dictatorship of Francisco Franco are inspiring a
stream of pubhcations, documentaries, parUamentary discussions, and
scholarly investigations. This discourse of remembering forms quite a
contrast to what came before. When Francisco Franco died in 1975,
the general fear of a new war and the shared wish for democracy
resulted in a politics of silence and consensus, to which both the pow-
erful right and the recently legalized left agreed. Well into democratic
times, this discourse of forgetting remains very viable in Spain. Now,
however, a new discourse of remembering is successfuUy breaking the
taboo on the past.

Contemporary Spanish literature has played its own part in break-
ing this taboo. Well-known authors such as Antonio Muñoz Molina,
Javier Marías, Javier Cercas, Rafael Chirbes, and Alvaro Pombo
have recently incorporated the war and the dictatorship into their
literary works. Interestingly, studies of this type of works show that
in them the past often returns as a process of haunting. Jo Labanyi,
for instance, finds the ghosts of Spain's traumatic dictatorial past in
simulacra, such as film stills and photographs, which she discovers
in a host of contemporary Spanish novéis and films: "Photographs,
like film stills, play an important role as images of a fragmentary,
discontinuous, spectral past" (69). And in a convincing study, Isabel
Cuñado shows how haunting takes place in the works of contempo-
rary Spanish author Javier Marías by searching for ali elements that

MESTER, VOL. XXXVI (2007) 179

180 Fiona Schouten

cause estrangement: the double and photography, for example, but
also antique books and other objects (31).

Haunting, or the spectral, is described by Fredric Jameson as
"[. . .] what makes the present waver: the vibrations of a heat wave
through which the massiveness of the object world — indeed of matter
itself — now shimmers like a mirage" (38). Haunting processes in a
novel cause a sense of a ghostly presence that goes above and beyond
straightforward descriptions of the (fictional) object world. Rather
than treating the past through a form of realism, such works often
contain surreal and disturbing elements. It is remarkable, to say the
least, that so many Spanish novéis dealing with a traumatic past
depart from realism and allow for haunting. Is this a symptom of
the discourse of forgetting and consensus, which are still prompting
Spanish authors to treat the painful theme in roundabout ways and
only with the utmost delicacy?

Justo Navarro's novel, La casa dei padre (1994), is yet another
novel dealing with the traumatic Spanish past that departs from real-
istic conventions by incorporating disturbing elements. It contains
"un poderoso claroscuro 1 visto] como a través de una cornucopia en
la que los objetos se exaltan y la realidad entera aparece desfigurada
por una distorsión de carácter expresionista, afín a la que tiene lugar
en las novelas de terror" (Echevarría 153). Also, the novel is charac-
terised by a "1. . .] frecuencia [. . .] de las asociaciones verbales, de la
ambigüedad, de lo fantasmagórico, de lo monstruoso, de lo extraño"
(Masoliver Rodenas 473). This arricie sets out to show how these
elements open up the novel to haunting. It also intends to investígate
how does this haunting process reverberare in the novel, and to illus-
trate the effect it has on portraying of the past.

Upon reading La casa del padre, a literary scholar cannot help but
wonder: did Navarro read Freud's famous essay on "das Unheimliche"
(1963), or the uncanny? It certainly seems that way, because the novel
literally contains all uncanny motifs Freud summarizes. There are plenty
of Doppelganger, severed body parts,' and haunted houses present on
its pages; a boy who suffers from a frost bite appears as "un ingenio
mecánico" (66), who "crujía como un autómata" {65), bringing to
mind the "Motiv der belebt scheinenden Puppe"- (61); and characters
are missing eyes or wear the wrong glasses, so they "[entrecierran]
siempre los ojos turbios" (62) — according to Freud (1963), it is "eine
schreckliche Kinderangst [...], die Augen zu beschadigen"^ (59).

Labyrinth without Walls 181

The story of La casa del padre revolves around an unnamed
protagonist, who is also the first-person narrator. From a latter-day
perspective, the narrator recounts the six months he is supposed to
have left of Ufe on his return from the hospital after fighting for the
División Azul, the Spanish army división that helped Nazi-Germany
on the Russian front. His limited life expectations, due to machine
gun pellets in his lungs, do not prevent his mother from sending
him to study law in Granada, because disease in their home town
of Málaga is threatening to kill him even before the six months are
over. In Granada, he moves in with his father's brother. Since his
late father married beneath his social class, the protagonist and his
mother fall out of grace with the family, and he does not know his
únele, whose regular donations nonetheless enable his mother and
himself to survive. He soon gets used to the big, dark house and its
inhabitants, as well as their daily routines; he also gets to know his
grandmother, who lies ill and whom he is not supposed to visit, and
two mysterious inhabitants of the second floor, the Bueso siblings. The
drive to Granada results in the protagonist making friends with: the
journalist Portugal, who also comes from Málaga and asks to make
the journey with them, and the eccentric property hustler, the Duke of
Elvira, whom they meet in a hotel after the car breaks down. Though
the protagonist does not like Portugal in the least, he soon realizes
that the repórter is his ticket to spending many happy afternoons
with Elvira and especially his wife Ángeles, with whom he has fallen
in love instantly. Eventually, however, Elvira's vocation of blackmail-
ing people into selling him real estáte below market valué results in
his murder. Portugal, too, seems to disintegrate, and the only person
who wins is the protagonist: he lives much longer than the allotted
six months, finishes his studies, and marries Angeles. At the end of
his six months of life, moreover, he discovers that his únele is actually
his real father.

La casa del padre is full of uncanny conventions — most impor-
tantly, that of the double. It seems as if almost everybody in the novel
has a double or pretends to be someone else. The protagonist, though
he is portrayed as an outsider, is no exception. Many mothers of the
young soldiers, who went to the Russian front with the protagonist,
ask him if he has any news of their sons; out of pity, he lies that he
knows them and that they are well. He is not the only one who lies
in this way; for example, when an acquaintance tries to unmask

182 Fiona Schouten

him as a liar by bringing him to a fellow soldier from Rússia, whose
extremities are severely corroded by a frost bite, the invalid pretends
to know him. He does not really recognize him, but merely calis him
by the nickname ali soldiers from their town had: "Málaga, ya has
vuelto tú también" (46). There is, it is suggested, no real difference
between one and the other; they suffered similar fates and this makes
them interchangeable.

Additionally, uncanny is Portugal's rumoured assumption of
his brother's identity: "Muchos empezaron a decir que el Portugal
que había muerto en un tejado de Granada era el falangista y que el
Portugal que vivía era el comunista que se había puesto las gafas de
su hermano" (62). This suspicion is fed by Portugal's inexplicable,
uncanny behaviour: during the trip from Málaga to Granada, he
brings a suitcase with him, which he got at an auction — the contents
of which the protagonist recognizes from an advertisement in the
paper (104). Once in Granada, Portugal seems to be doing badly,
appearing more and more disheveled and drunk in his eternal summer
suit. Finally, his troubled gaze through the spectacles that supposedly
belonged to his brother gives him something uncanny, always "mirán-
donos como si no nos viera" (76).

How^ever, one must note that the narrator is not to be trusted
completely: his jealousy of Portugal and his enviable rapport with
women in general, not to mention Elvira's wife Angeles, makes him
an especially unreliable narrator. "Portugal hechizó desde la primera
visita al Duque de Elvira y a la mujer del Duque de Elvira. [. . .] Y yo
me moría de celos," the narrator confesses. "[S]i no llevaba a Portugal,
no me admitían en la casa del Duque de Elvira" (174-6). Whether
Portugal is really masquerading as his brother, or whether the narrator
merely suggests this out of jealousy, remains unclear for a long time.
Even with the apparition of a photograph depicting the two brothers
together, near the end of the novel, the ambiguity remains.

The most uncanny doubles are the Buesos, a truly monstrous
brother-sister duo, abjectly impoverished and living amidst layer upon
layer of filth. The Doppelgánger-motif is further developed through
chauffeur's, Don Julio linking them to the Portugals, as well as to
another pair of brothers, whose betrayal he relates. As the narrator
recalls: "Don Julio sólo hablaba de parejas de hermanos, todos más
o menos viles e infelices, dos hermanos, los Bueso [. . .]" (108). The
uncannily one-eyed Bueso sister is particularly hideous:

Labyrmth without Walts 183

Había vuelto a taparse el ojo derecho con una gasa, iba
vestida con ropa de hombre [. . .] y las vendas y la carne de
la mujer tenían el mismo color de la ropa [. . .]. La mujer
tenía ceniza y telarañas en el pelo, y la gasa que le cubría
el ojo derecho era como una telaraña tupida, y no se sabía
si el olor agrio y corrompido de la casa impregnaba a la
mujer [. . .] o si el olor [. . .] de la mujer impregnaba todas
las cosas. (146)

The narrator is terrified of her, and because of that she posesses him.
She forces him to return to her house with oil she and her brother can
feed on, threatening that she will tell the pólice that the protagonist is
her friend, vanished or non-existent older brother if he does not obey.
All in all, the Buesos are hardly human. It is not clear who they are
or whether they really have a brother. The only thing the reader can
discover of them with certainty, through a comment of Don Julio's, is
that their father was executed (108). For the rest, these larger-than-iife
fiithy characters are a horrific presence in the narration; their roles in
it are vague and disquieting.

Other pairs of siblings and friends, who turn on each other, cause
similar ambiguity in La casa del padre. Most notably, the únele of
the protagonist turns out to be, and assumes the role of, his father
(261). Also, both Don Julio and the protagonist wear the dead man's
oíd clothes, which creates a bizarre rivalry between them (135). The
result of all this mirroring, reflection, and dis- or replacement, is that a
sort of general ambiguity comes into being: no one is as he seems, and
the reader is left in constant doubt about characters' identities, their
lies, and their truths. Thus the uncanny Doppelgánger-motif gives
the novel a general feel of instability: the apparently stable novelistic
world is constantly unbalanced by the many masks its inhabitants
appear to be wearing.

Thus we are left considering what effect do these uncanny conven-
tions have in the novel, and whether they allow for haunting. Freud
provisionally defines the uncanny as "[. . .] das Heimliche-Heimische
[. . .] das eine Verdrángung erfahren hat und aus ihr wiedergekehrt
ist'"* {Das Unheimliche 75). It is the unfamiliar return of what was
once familiar, and what disturbs us now. Freud gives some examples
of the uncanny: the already mentioned Doppelganger, severed body
parts, and doUs which, through mechanisation or otherwise, appear

Fiona Schonten

to be alive. Incidentally, many have called Freud's famous essay itself
uncanny (Wolfreys 16): proof that not just the motifs mentioned by
its author provide such an effect. In a footnote of his Spectres de
Marx, Jacques Derrida comments on Freud's uncanny. He points out
the apparent contradiction in Freud's analysis of the ghost in Hamlet.
Freud is convinced that this ghost is not uncanny. After ali, within the
realm of fiction, such a breach of the conventions of the real world is
to be expected. Derrida finds that the rest of Freud's essay contradicts
this, since, he exclaims: "[. . .] tous les exemples de Unheimlichkeit
sont dans cet essai empruntés à la littérature!" (275). Contrarily, John
Fletcher argües in his analysis of Spectres de Marx that Derrida is
mistaken here: Freud did not suggest that ali fiction prevents super-
natural events from appearing uncanny. It really depends on the text's
genre and its conventions (33). It follows, then, that the uncanny is an
effect that can occur in texts, and also in real life. It can be, but does
not have to be, aroused by the appearance of supernatural things like
ghosts; it is, however, dependent on conventions, expectations, laws;
and it is the disruption of those. As such, it really is just another name
for an incarnation of the spectral.

The spectre, and the spectral in general, are often referred to in
fantastic literature and horror films as the 'undead.' Like a vampire,
the spectre can manifest itself in the world of the living, and therefore,
it is not dead; neither alive, nor a part of the world of the living, it is
a mere apparition. By this reasoning, the spectral cannot be, just as it
cannot not be. It has no ontological status, but rather occupies its own
category, which Derrida calis a "hantologie." There is no way of defin-
ing it, because it simply is not. According to Derrida, the spectral is a
concept without concept (Marx c'est quelqu'un 23). At most, it can
be described by analogy, as Fredric Jameson does when he compares
it to the "vibrations" of a heat wave (38).

Jameson's so-called "vibrations" are the manifestations of the
spectral that we can observe in our world, and that produce a particu-
lar distorting effect. Julián Wolfreys considers this analogy particularly
well-chosen, because not only does it pretend to define the undefinable,
but it also illustrates how we can perceive the spectral, yet not see it.
"A trace registers itself in the field of visión," Wolfreys explains, "but
this trace is not that which causes the registration. Caused by that
which affects the visible it is the trace of something else, something
which cannot be seen, as such" (77). Wolfreys appears to take his own

Labyrinth without Walls 1 85

description of haunting from this image of the spectral: "Haunting
might best be described as the ability of forces that remain unseen
to make themselves felt in everyday Ufe" (110). The manifestation
of this haunting is not the spectre, or ghost, but its trace: the ghost
retracts itself as soon as it manifests itself. Simón Critchley calis this
"the ghosting of the ghost" (10).

All this means that the motifs of which Freud speaks are not, in
themselves, the uncanny. The motifs are what causes the invisible to
"víbrate" and make itself perceptible. They are not ghosts, ñor traces
of ghosts; they are simply circumstances that allow for the spectral
to manifest itself. Those circumstances do not have to be Freud's
Doppelganger or severed body parts. Derrida has suggested in 1997,
for instance, that modern technology is the locus par excellence of
haunting because modern modes of communication — televisión, the
telephone — provide reproduction. And, as Derrida further points out,
reproduction is linked to repetition and representation, creating a
phantom structure. What is reproduced is always altered, fragmented
and reduced, and at the same time, it is perpetuated or prolonged. In
this manner, uncanny motifs in a text may point towards haunting,
especially if they succeed in causing estrangement.

As discussed previously. La casa del padre certainly does not lack
uncanny motifs. And there is yet another textual element that suggests
the possibility of Navarro's novel being haunted. The haunted house
motif, central in the novel as indicated by its title, both represents the
typically uncanny and also, significantly, refers to another literary genre:
the Gothic novel. At the start of the novel, while the protagonist is living
with his mother in Málaga, the narrator describes the house they inhabit
as asphyxiating: "[M]i madre [. . .] había empezado a transformarse: no
podía respirar en aquella casa [...]. Fue pisar aquella casa y empezar
el asma, el ahogo, el miedo a morir asfixiada" (82). What is more, he
States that "[. . .] el piso que mi madre y mi padre compartían era el
signo de la maldición" (83). In other words, it has come to represent
the father's mistake of marrying a simple waitress and the shame of his
being thrown out of his family's house in Granada where the uncie still
lives. The narrator thus explicitly attributes metaphoric meaning to the
houses that appear in La casa del padre.

The actual 'haunted house,' the house of the father, is a single floor
in a larger building, and initially, it does come across as particularly
scary. To the protagonist, however, it is like a prison, since almost all

186 Fiona Schouten

doors are locked to him: "Todas las puertas tenían llave en aquella casa
y todas las puertas estaban cerradas siempre" (144). Even worse, his
únele obliges him to rest constantly, making him feel like "Houdini, un
mago que se lanza al fondo del océano atado con cadenas 1- . .1 y ha de
liberarse antes de que lo mate la asfixia" (144). Eventually, however,
he manages to make copies of all the keys of the house, and one night,
he starts investigating it. In the dark, the house reminds him of "[. . .]
la nieve, un laberinto sin muros en el que había estado encerrado una
vez" (211). Massive and unknown in the darkness, the house is like a
labyrinth. Indeed, its walls confine its own monster: the protagonist's
demented grandmother: "Vi al monstruo, una vieja con la cabeza
blanca, vestida de negro de pies a cabeza, deforme [. . .]" (212). At
night, the house can turn into a "mundo de fantasmas" (215), while in
the daytime, it is no less strange with its eccentric, black-haired maid,
Beatriz, whose face exhibits strange red spots: "[. . .] las manchas rosa
en la cara de Beatriz como mapas de Groenlandia y Gran Bretaña"
(215), and with its rather tyrannical owner: "[. . .] todas las cosas esta-
ban siempre como disponía mi tío" (135).

Strangest of all, perhaps, is how the house is mirrored in that of
the Buesos, on the second floor: "[. . .1 era una casa extraña porque
era exactamente igual que la casa de mi tío, pero putrefacta 1. . .].
En la pared [. . .] no había un cuadro como en la casa de mi tío, sino
un gran rectángulo de un ocre más pálido que el ocre del resto de la
pared" (147). Here, the motif of doubling and that of the haunted
house work together to créate a strange sense of ambiguity. This is
further manifest in other houses, such as the Duke of Elvira 's, which
similarly personifies his illusive splendour, hollowness, and meaning-
lessness. As the narrator describes it: "Era como una película, como
una casa que sólo es una fachada de telones pintados y bastidores de
madera, en una habitación que quizá sólo tuviera las tres paredes que
veías. Y quizá estuviera hueco el piano vertical con dos candelabros
de plata y velas negras que no habían sido encendidas nunca" (154).
More than fictional settings, the houses reflect the character and his-
tory of their inhabitants. Accordingly, a house can feel like a prison,
a labyrinth, or a symbol of shame.

A house can also be tomb-like, a grave for the living dead. The
Bueso siblings are said to have buried themselves alive in their own
home, "1. . .] se habían enterrado en vida" (108). The same goes for
the grandmother, who hides as if buried in her own home. Effectively,

Labyrinth without Walls 187

for half a year, the protagonist resides in the realm of the living dead.
Believing he has only six months left to hve, he feels he has no Ufe to
look forward to, and discards his future, no longer making plans: he
cannot live, and has yet to die. Repeatedly, he mentions that people
look at him to see "[. . .] cómo operaba la muerte en mí" (187).
Resides, he is paralyzed by a fear of dying, which is all the more sig-
nificam since his father literally died of fear: "[. . .] se murió de miedo
porque creía que llegaba la Marina nacional" (29).

Aside from the haunted house-motif and the Doppelganger with
which the novel is fiUed, then, there surfaces yet an additional conven-
tion of the Gothic novel: that of the living dead. In La casa del padre,
these elements evidence an unstable reality in which the haunted
house is perhaps the defining trope of the Gothic genre. This is usu-
ally defined as "[. . .] a genre given principal expression through the
novel, [with] a life span of approximately 56 years" which was "given
life in 1764 with the publication of Walpole's The Castle ofOtranto"
and "died allegedly somewhere around 1818 or 1820" (Wolfreys 8).
Eve Sedgwick suggests that the Gothic novel, however defined, is the
"[. . .] great hberator of feeling through its acknowledgement of the
'non-rational'" (11). Jacqueline Howard further informs that "stud-
ies [on the Gothic novel] have tended to proceed by cataloguing and
codifying the literary conventions perceived to be common to the
form" (13). Indeed, it is for its conventions that the Gothic novel is
most known and easiest to distinguish. Howard ñames a number of
these constituent elements:

[. . .] a remote castle, monastery, or gloomy house with its
confining crypts, vaults, and underground passage-ways
[. . .] the persecuted heroine, tyrannical parent, villainous
monk, Faustian overreacher [. . .], vampire-like apparition,
[. . .] dreams, mysterious portents, animated portraits and
statues, magic mirrors, and the like [. . .], embedded stories,
letters, diaries, [. . .] broken-off manuscripts. (13)

The Gothic novel, then, is to be recognized as belonging to the Gothic
genre by its moment of appearance, by its attention towards the emo-
tional and irrational, and by its use of the previously named tropes.

Nonetheless, Julián Wolfreys argües that a broader view is nec-
essary. Countering definitions of the gothic in terms of "genre," he

188 Fiona Schouten

reconceptualises it as a "mode" (11). Genre, according to Chris Baldick,
is "a recognizable and established category of written work employing
such common conventions as will prevent readers and audiences from
mistaking it for another kind" (90). In the case of the Gothic, we are
dealing with a genre Baldick would quaiify as a "specialized sub-cate-
gory" (91) of literary art. Wolfreys suggests the existence of a "gothic
mode" (13), that exists independently of the genre, a mode being in
Baldick's definition "[. . .] an unspecific criticai term usually designa ting
a broad but identifiable kind of literary method, mood, or manner that
is not tied exclusively to a particular form or genre" (139-40). Like the
ironic or comic modes, the gothic mode thus becomes something that
can be 'called up' in any literary work. The gothic as a "mode" liberates
itself from the limitations imposed by "genre."

The consequence of this liberation of the gothic is that it loses
its proverbial body, materiality, and attachment to a limited selection
of literary works. If we accept Wolfreys's definition, and talk of the
"spectralization of the gothic," we find that the gothic becomes "[. . .]
one proper name for a process of spectral transformation [...]. Cast
out of its familiar places, the gothic is dematerialized into a somewhat
unpredictable tropological play" (Wolfreys 7). In other words, the
gothic mode is, in fact, a process of haunting. As such, it can leave
its traces in any number of places: in the real world, and, for that
matter, in a fictional world as well. In doing this, it causes a sense of
disruption. Wolfreys reaffirms: "The gothic is thus one name for acts
of spectral troping which we otherwise name the ghostly, the uncanny,
the phantom" (14).

As a form of haunting, however, the gothic mode does have its
own particularities. Of course, it appears where the Gothic genre's
conventions are apparent. These conventions are, in a way, typical
for the spectral in general, and in this way overlap with the uncanny:
the haunted house, the unheimlich Heim, is a trope that we also see
within the uncanny, which is essential to the concept of haunting itself.
After ali, haunting is a disruptive element within a structure — and the
mention of a structure (in the sense of a whole whose parts are related)
indicates an importance of place within haunting; the haunted house
is the most literal illustration of such a structure. The conventions tra-
ditionally associated with the Gothic genre cause the gothic mode to
be activated, or to put it another way: to allow for a haunting process
that I would be inclined to denomínate "gothic."

Labyrinth without Walls 1 89

Because of its similarities with the gothic mode, we can now
begin to speak of an uncanny mode, both forms of haunting being
complementary to each other. Each emerges in a text through cer-
tain tropes, and they can but may not necessarily imply haunting.
In determining whether this is the case in a text such as La casa del
padre, I look to Bakhtin's theory of the novel. JacqueHne Howard
suggests an approach based on Bakhtin: she sees the novel as an
arrangement of many voices or discourses. Though one discourse
may be privileged, the text may contain many others; what is more,
every text possesses a "potential for subversión" (5). Howard focuses
on the disruptive force that exists within the text's structure — if the
text is a house, she is looking for its ghosts. This haunting process
inside the novel may be called the uncanny, the spectral or the
gothic, depending on the circumstances giving rise to this particular
case of 'estrangement.'

Just how the privileging of a discourse and the subordination
of others is effectuated in a text becomes clear when we take into
account Philippe Hamon's discussion of a text's "effet-idéologie" (9).
Hamon shows that ideology as a textual element or effect comes into
being in places in the text where such an evaluation takes place. He
explains that every evaluative point in a text has its own specifics or
appareils normatifs: the form of the evaluation (positive or negative),
the nature of what is evaluated (action or person), the instance or
instances who perform the evaluation and the norms that are called
up may differ from evaluation to evaluation. Together, these four
aspects produce what Hamon calis a dominante normative (28). From
Hamon's description, we may conciude that ideology in a text is the
result of constant comparison of norms, and that, since eventually a
dominant norm results, the text's ideology is hierarchically structured.
Furthermore, it is important to realize that though a text may appear
to have a single dominant hierarchy, it is possible for this dominant
to vary according to its point of evaluation. In Hamon's words:
"Hiérarchies et dominantes peuvent varier à l'intérieur d'une même
texte, ou d'une texte à l'autre" (39).

Hamon's and Howard's approaches to the hierarchical structur-
ing of discourses in a text are quite similar. This becomes clear when
we look at Howard's analysis of Ann Radcliffe's The Mysteries of
Udolpho, where he states:

190 Fiona Schouten

In The Mysteries of Udolpho, the discourses of sensibility
and taste function to establish aesthetic and moral norms
[. . .]. Sensibility, however, is also repeatedly criticized
by the narrator for its dangerous potential to destabilize
and weaken individuais, particularly women [. . .]. At the
same time, working dialogically against such criticism, is
the recontextualization of superstitions, folklore, and a
discourse of the sublime which operates as a more or less
unproblematic extensión of the 'real,' and encourages belief
in the uncanny [. . .]. (6)

What Howard has really found is a number of loci in the text whose
dominant norms seem to be in conflict. Apparently, there are quite
a few places where sensibility and taste stand out as positive norms.
Then, there is the narrator, who evaluares one of these norms dif-
ferently and warns against sensibility. And the discourse of the
supernatural, uttered by that same narrator, undermines this warning
yet again. Howard looks at evaluation points and, contrasting their
normative dominant, identifies different discourses, or 'voices.'

Jacqueline Howard's analysis of Udolpho also illustrates how
the different places of evaluation are hierarchically structured. She
points out that the dominant norms (in this case, those underlying
the discourses of taste and sensibility) are undermined by what she
calis "women's assertiveness" (7). She concludes: ''Udolpho can
be said to disturb unquestioning acceptance of upper-middle-class
patriarchal, social, and cultural order" (7). What Howard detects
in the text is a subversive potential, a discourse that undermines the
general, dominant discourse. In a limited number of textual places,
the local dominante differs from the ones that occur most frequently
in evaluative points. In Bakhtin's terms, the text has both centripetal
and centrifugal forces (47). However, while analyzing the contrasting
normative systems and their hierarchical order in the text, whereby
one dominares the other, Howard leaves aside the actual presence
of gothic conventions in Radcliffe's novel. The gothic mode that is
opened up by the novel's villains, mysterious castles, and so on, is not
fully undone by any logical explanations there may be given to the
ghostly occurrences that scare the female protagonist. It is not just this
protagonist, but also the reader who is affected by the haunting. What
haunting does in a work like Udolpho is to undermine an ideological

Labvrinth unthout Walls 1 9]

structure — not as a part of such a hierarchy, as a dissonant voice or
centrifugal force, but as a thing that is both incorporated into it and
strange to it. This is not merely the case in a Gothic novel like The
Mysteries of Udolpho. It also occurs in Navarro's La casa dei padre.

In La casa dei padre, the narrator's voice is the most important
one. Therefore, the narrator is usually the evaluating instance. This
narrator looks back from modern, democratic times upon the first
years of the Francoist dictatorship, and so, his evaluation of such a
society may contrast with the norms held valid at the time. In many
places, however, the narrator avoids passing such a judgment, com-
menting on his incapacity to remember. He frequently states that "no
tengo memoria", that "[. . .] siempre he querido perder la memoria"
(67) or that "sólo tengo memoria para lo bueno" (295). Ali in ali, he
maintains that he has been lucky and happy in life.

A considerable part of the narration is focalized through the
narrator's younger self. Interestingly, the narrator positions this
protagonist firmly as an outsider, a spectator. Upon returning, trau-
matized, from Rússia, the boy can only see the world around him
conscious of the inevitable decay of ali that is beautiful. When he gets
to dance w^ith Paula, the girl he is in love with, he is suddenly over-
eóme by an awareness of her fate: "Vi bailar a la hija del farmacéutico
con muchos, y era emocionante: estaba predestinada, dentro de diez
años habría envejecido, estaría fea, y luego se pondría más vieja y más
fea, y luego se moriría" (58). The contrast between his tender age and
lack of experience with women, and his experience with putrefaction
and death becomes painfully clear. To make matters worse, he feels
constantly stared at: "me miraban y querían descubrir en mí la marca
de la muerte" (187).

The young man's view on Spanish society of the 1940s is thus an
outsider's view. What becomes most clear of all in his observations
about the period and its valué system, is: that in his eyes, there are no
valúes. He is living in a moral vacuum. Perhaps the best illustration
of the amorahty that prevails in the society of La casa del padre is the
corrupting influence it has on the protagonist himself. He is domi-
nated by fear, a fear of standing out, of attracting attention: "Nadie
se miraba dentro del tranvía [...]. Un hombre no desvió los ojos, y
me imaginé que era uno de la policía secreta o un confidente" (153).
He is afraid of being "[. . .] interrogado sobre un asunto del que no
sabía nada" (196), which happened to a boy he knew. Perhaps as a

1 92 Piona Schouten

consequence of this fear, he lies constantly. He lies mostly to please
people, "[. . .] sólo era para agradarle" (264). He lies to the Bueso
sister that he knows her older brother. Eventually, he even starts
inventing stories to tell his únele, and makes up tales about his life in
Rússia to impress Angeles. The narrator states that he did this because
he discovered that "[. . .] era agradable mentir: mentí por comodidad,
por hablar lo menos posible. [. . .] Era insoportable decir la verdad:
daba sueño" (232). This is an obviously evaluative moment: the nar-
rator 'defends' himself against possible recriminations, stating that
lying was the most comfortable option in those days.

La casa del padre is populated with characters who let themselves
be dominated by fear, who behave immorally, or who do both. Often,
focalisation shifts from the young protagonist to them when their story
is told, thus implicitly including their voices in the narration. There is,
for example, Larraz, the director of the cinema in Málaga, who is terri-
fied to be associated with either 'suspicious' people like the lawyer called
Pleguezuelos, whose son was executed, or with a fascist known for his
cruelty, "porque no quería destacarse" (22). It is clear that in those
years, such fears were omnipresent, as the narrator remarks, "[. . .]
quien está solo es sospechoso" (20). The Duke of Elvira exemphfies
the amorality that is omnipresent in the novel. He handily makes use
of the situation of the immediate postwar: as a distinguished falangist
who has met Alfonso XIII, Franco, and José Antonio Primo de Rivera,
he is in the position of blackmailing the less fortúnate with their pasts.
Journalist Portugal also behaves amorally: he writes propaganda for
fascist newspapers. However, the protagonist manages to find out that
before the war, Portugal, his brother, and the leftist son of Pleguezuelos
were good friends. This means that Portugal was not originally on the
nationalist side. The same goes for another member of their group of
friends: Portada, now army officer and head of the pólice. It turns out
he personally killed the young Pleguezuelos.

The young protagonist lives in what Navarro himself has called
"[. . .] la atmósfera de grisura moral y mezquindad afectiva que impu-
sieron los vencedores en los años cuarenta: un mundo de máscaras en
estado de congelación" (qtd. in Márquez). In such circumstances, one
either selfishly takes advantage of others whenever one can, like the
Duke, or one lives in fear and lies to save one's own skin, like the pro-
tagonist does. AU through the story, he has professed great admiration
for the Duke of Elvira, even though he reaHzed all along his behaviour

Labyrinth ivithoiU Walls 193

was unethical. This sympathy for Elvira is understandable: amid a
nation consisting mostly of cowards, Elvira is a flamboyant risk-taker
v^ho does not mind standing out. A frightened, shy outsider, it is not
surprising that the protagonist looks up to this worldly man.

As the novel progresses, it becomes clear why the narrator, in
spite of the fact that he is constantly remembering, is very keen on
forgetting the unpleasant sides of the past. After Elvira is murdered,
it is the protagonist who ends up as the winner: he gains Elvira 's wife
and daughter. The protagonist has taken Elvira 's place unscrupulously.
What is more, upon Elvira 's death, he comes into the possession of
documents and photos painfuUy incriminating those who Elvira tried
to blackmail. It is no wonder, then, that he claims to have "[. . .]
muchos y excelentes amigos" (294), among them, the King himself.
Worst of all, he suggests that he may have had something to do with
the suicide of his childhood bully, the cousin of Elvira:

Sólo guardé por diversión algunos papeles del Duque de
Elvira que recogían debilidades juveniles del ingeniero
Espona-Castillo Creus, primo del Duque de Elvira y nuevo
Duque de Elvira, mi antiguo condiscípulo en el colegio jesu-
íta de Málaga. Espona-Castillo Creus [. . .] se pegó un tiro
cuando se rumoreaba que dormía la siesta con un novillero
[. . .]. Entonces destruí también los papeles que conservaba
sobre Espona-Castillo Creus, porque hay que olvidar, la
memoria feliz y limpia está hecha de olvidos. (295)

Following the lack of norms he was faced with upon his return from
Rússia, the narrator has developed from a scared liar into a happy
opportunist. Clearly, he knows that such behaviour may seem right
to him, but it clashes with the valué system of the society he currently
lives in. That is why he likes to forget: to keep his memory 'clean' in
the eyes of a new time.

It may be concluded that there are two different normative dis-
courses at work that determine the ideology of the novel. First of all,
there is the amoral discourse of the narrator — which echoes the dis-
course of forgetting that has dominated Spanish society for so long.
In his description of the early Spanish 1940s, the narrator makes it
perfectly clear that, in the absence of justice and morais, anything
could get you killed and that violence was frequent and random. What

1 94 Fiona Schouten

is remarkable is that the narrator does not openly attach a negative
value to such amorality. This is, of course, a consequence of the fact
that he has been so influenced by the lack of norms and valúes that he
has appropriated them. In fact, on the last pages, he points out that
his amoral value system has done him ali the good in the v^^orld: he is
influentiai, happy, and married to the woman of his dreams. Secondly,
however, there is a normative discourse that is largely implicit: that
of the narratee, that of the present. In the end, the narratee is openly
addressed by the narrator: "Mañana le seguiré contando" (295). Here,
the 'real' reader may feel spoken to, and in this way, the text indirectly
incorporates his or her own normative discourse.

The dominant discourse here is not, as might be expected, that of
the narrator. Though the text is apparently dominated by the narrator,
and most of the characters adapt to or behave according to his value
system, this discourse can only be described in relation to what came
before it or in this case, after it. In other words, we can only speak of a
moral vacuum when we define it through a discourse that is not a moral
vacuum. Here we see an example of Bakhtin's concept of double-voiced-
ness: one discourse impfies the other. The narrator is an unreliable liar,
whose admission to a-morality reads, at times, defensive. The narrator
knows that he is judged by his narratee; he explains his motivations,
but realizes where the narratee may disagree with him.

This hierarchy of dicourses is apparently stable throughout the
novel. Nevertheless, a process of haunting disturbs this stability. This
haunting is caused by trauma, the nature of which becomes clear
when the narrator finally explains what happened in Rússia, and why
he won the Second Class Iron Cross. As they were stuck in a shack
in Possad with a wounded corporal called Carré, his sergeant Leyva
had ordered him to try and fix the wire that provided radio contact
with headquarters. Exhausted, confused, and blinded by snow, he
had not followed orders but instead shot at one of the two hand gre-
nades Leyva had hanging around his neck, causing an explosión and
the death of the two others: "Y entonces pensé: ¿si le disparo a una
de las bombas, se estallará? Y apunté. Creo que disparé: me dormí,
desaparecí. Y mucho después desperté en el Hospital de Riga con la
Cruz de Hierro de Segunda Clase" (288). It can be deduced from the
text that the boy acted in a fit of insanity and that he is thus not a true
murderer. Nevertheless, the fact that his insane action was immedi-
ately rewarded with an Iron Cross is quite bizarre.

Labyrinth without Walls 1 95

Though gothic or uncanny conventions as such need not imply
the presence of a ghost, in this case it can be argued that they do cause
disruption within the novel. This is evident in the way in which these
conventions are connected to the traumatic episode in the Possad cabin.
The house of the father reminds the protagonist-narrator of that snowy
'labyrinth without walls.' He also mentions that his únele smothers him
in it: "Me cuidaba mi tío, me tenía entre algodones, y era muy cansada
la vida cómoda y feliz" (143). Just as in the cabin, the protagonist's
world is muffled in snow, and it makes him mortally tired. As in Possad,
he is waiting for death, and once again, he miraculously survives. The
Possad episode is, like any true trauma, completely separated from the
fictional world of Málaga and Granada in which the protagonist now
Uves. It is distant both in space and time, and having experienced the
Russian front like the protagonist or the boy Rafael, it sets you apart.
Nevertheless, the Possad scene keeps intruding into the consciousness of
the protagonist-narrator. AU houses are potential graves, like the Possad
cabin: a snow or cotton padding keeps out the outside world. It may be
concluded that in La casa del padre, a process of haunting takes place:
trauma disrupts the fictional world, making use of phantom structures
like reproductions and duplications or a haunted house.

For the ideological hierarchy of Navarro's text, the haunting
gothic and uncanny work as an undermining force. While in the text's
evaluative points, two normative discourses are opposed, the trauma
disturbs those, blurring their boundaries. The Possad trauma works
as a sort of explanation of the narrator's amoral stance: it justifies
his holding on to the valué system of a past era. In the Possad cabin,
the protagonist felt trapped, excluded from the outside world, and he
was driven to an act of insanity. Back in the world of the living, he
receives a medal for his wartime performance. From this point on,
behaving morally seems absurd to the narrator-protagonist: his only
development between the 1940s and the democratic present is from
a coward to an opportunist. The continuous intrusión of the Possad
episode in the narration makes this almost understandable to the nar-
ratee, or implied reader: the feeling of being smothered and buried
alive is constantly invoked by spaces and situations that remind the
protagonist of the cabin in the snow: labyrinth-like houses, or the bed
that his únele forces him to spend much time in.

Interestingly, the haunting of the trauma, though it serves as
an explanation for the narrator's amorality, does not allow for his

196 Fiona Schouten

discourse to become dominant. The protagonist's trauma does not
let him forget; the past continually intrudes in the present and cannot
be silenced. The narrator may therefore claim to Uve a happy and
forgetful Ufe but in reahty, there is no escaping the ghosts of the past.
Clearly, then, the departure from reaHsm in La casa dei padre does not
imply a return to or echo of the Spanish discourse of forgetting.

Instead, trauma vibrates within the novel, superimposing itself
upon a more rational narration of the past. Navarro's novel without
2l gothic or uncanny mode would have been a confrontation of the
narrator's provocatively amoral discourse and the implicit narratee's
ideology — the latter of which, of course, many a contemporary reader
would identify with. The novel would thus invite a reader to compare
both discourses. This rational act, interesting as it may be in itself,
cannot, however, make the trauma of such a past /¿/í, like the traces
of a ghost can be felt. The recasting of Navarro's protagonist's life
in the early dictatorship through a trauma such as that of Possad,
which causes him to experience it as something grotesque, uncanny,
causes the structure of the novel, with its stress on morality, to become
unstable. What the novel gains, though, is the presence of ghostly
traces, which créate an atmosphere so oppressive that it may make the
postwar society somehow almost tangible to the reader.

Notes

1. "Abgetrennte Glieder [. . .] haben etwas ungemein Unheimliches an
sich", Freud contends. (Das Unheimliche 73). ["Dismembered limbs [. . .]
have something peculiarly uncanny about them" (The Uncanny 636).]

2. "[. . .] theme [. . .] of a doll which appears to be aiive" (The Uncanny
629).

3. "[. . .] the fear of damaging [. . .] one's eyes is a terrible one in
children" (The Uncanny 628).

4. "[. . .] secretly familiar [heimlich-heimisch], which has undergone
repression and then returned from it" (The Uncanny 637).

Works Cited

Baldick, Chris. The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms. 1990.
Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996.

Labyrinth without Walls 197

Critchley, Simón. "On Derrida's Specters o f Marx." Philosophy & Social

Criticism 21.3 (1995): 1-30.
Cuñado, Isabel. El espectro de la herencia: la narrativa de Javier Marías.

Amsterdam [etc.]: Rodopi, 2004.
Derrida, Jacques. Spectres de Marx: l'état de la dette, le travai I du deuil et la

nouvelle Internationale. París: Galilée, 1993.
. "Marx, c'est quelqu'un." Marx en jeu. Marc Guillaume Jacques

Derrida, and Jean-Pierre Vincent, Ed. Paris: Descartes & Cie, 1997.

9-28.
Echevarría, Ignacio. Trayecto: un recorrido crítico por la reciente narrativa

española. Barcelona: Debate, 2005.
Fletcher, John, 1996. "Marx the Uncanny? Ghosts and Their Relation to the

Mode of Production." Radical Philosophy 75. 31-37.
Freud, Sigmund. "Das Unheimliche." Das Unheimliche: Aufsatze zur

Literatiir. 1919. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1963. 45-84.
. "The Uncanny. "Neí^- Literary History 7 :3. Trans. James Strachey.

Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1976. 619-645.
Hamon, Philippe. Texte et idéologie. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France,

1984.
Howard, Jacqueline. Reading Gothic Fiction: A Bakhtinian Approach.

Oxford: Clarendon, 1994.
Jameson, Fredric. "Marx' Purloined Letter." Ed. Michael Sprinker. Ghostly

Demarcations: A Symposium on Jacques Derrida's Specters o f Marx.

London: Verso, 1999. 26-67.
Labanyi, Jo. "History and Hauntology; Or, What Does One Do with the

Ghosts of the Past? Reflections on Spanish Film and Fiction of the

Post-Franco Period." Disremembering the Dictatorship: The Politics of

Memory in the Spanish Transition to Democracy. Joan Ramón Resina,

Ed. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2000. 65-82.
Márquez, Héctor. "El mundo está lleno de canallas felices." El País 29 May

1994.
Masoliver Rodenas, Juan Antonio. Voces contemporáneas. Barcelona:

Acantilado, 2004.
Navarro, Julio. La casa del padre. Barcelona: Anagrama, 1994.
Wolfreys, Julián. Victorian Hauntings: Spectrality, Gothic, the Uncanny and

Literature. Basingstoke, New York: Palgrave, 2002.

Santitos: Loss, the Catholic Sleuth, and
the Transnational Mestiza Consciousness

Juan Velasco

Santa Clara University

Death is an unquestionable part of our lives, a matter of time, the only
thing we know for certain. The death of your own child, however, is
a matter of disbeUef, perhaps madness. How do cultures account for
the deaths of their children? How does Hterature address their loss,
mourning and rage? In Maria Amparo Escandón's novel Santitos
[Esperanza's Box ofSaintsY (1999), a young widow, Esperanza, stares
death in the face walking the fine line between loss and madness,
healing and trauma for over two hundred pages. As the author has
explained, this is the main question of the novel: "What if I was told
my daughter had died and I wasn't able to confirm her death? My
immediate reaction w^ould be to deny it. To prove them wrong I would
do what anyone else would in this case: anything and everything. Cali
on otherworldly forces for guidance? Sure. Set out to find her who
knows where in the world? Of course. Become a prostitute? You bet.
And in the process of looking for her, Pd most likely find myself."
(http://www.sdlatinofilm.com).

In the novel Esperanza Diaz has just lost her twelve-year-old
daughter to an unexplained virus. The last time she saw her, Blanca
was in the hospital to have her tonsils removed. Suddenly she is
reported dead. What foUows gives the novel an unlikely twist. The
night of the funeral Esperanza experiences a visión from San Judas
Tadeo, patrón saint of desperate cases. Speaking through his image
on the oven window, he tells her that her daughter is not dead. Then,
Esperanza sets off with her box of saints to look for her daughter. This
journey takes her from her native town of Veracruz to Tijuana, then
to the Mexican side of Los Angeles and finally back home again.

Santitos not only articulates the complexities of loss, melancholia,
and mourning but also links these elements to créate new forms of repre-
sentation for the most recent Latin American novel. As loss becomes the

198 MESTER, VOL. XXXVI (2007)

Santitos: Loss, the Catholic Sleuth, and the Transnational Mestiza Consciousness 199

starting point of the narrative, the rest of the novel explores of "1. . .] the
numerous material practices by which loss is melancholically material-
ized in the social and the cultural realms and in the politicai and aesthetic
domains" (Eng &c Kazanfian 5). This is relevant given recent discussions
on the crisis of representation within circles of Latin American Cultural
Studies. In The Exhaustion of Difference: The Politics o f Latin American
Cultural Studies, Alberto Moreiras states that the "[. . .] conditions of
possibility for Latin Americanist discourse have shifted over the last
decade" (1). He also suggests that "[. . .] what is at issue in the debate on
literature and cultural studies is nothing but the specific valences of the
criticai function in the humanities" (2). What is being debated, of course,
is as much the peculiarities of its specific valences as it is the exhaustion
of the process of differentiated repetition, and the value of a literary
and cultural representation that seems to be trapped in the binary cage
of postcolonial thinking. Has Latin American discourse lost the power
of representation in an increasing culture of globalization? In the light
of these debates, how does loss (a central category of the novel) bring
new forms of representation? To what degree does this concept allow
space for a configura tion of a new transnational mestiza consciousness?
This article examines the remaking of a transnational mestiza literary
tradition in the light of new Latin American creative writing and criti-
cai thought. I argue that this recent Latin American literary production
seeks to créate a link between personal loss, and the trauma of historical
legacies, such as borders, migration or globalization. More specifically, in
the case of Santitos, the different aspects at play activate a new kind of
novel: the role of loss and mourning, combined with techniques from the
traditional analytic detective novel, lead to the birth of a transnational
mestiza cultural consciousness.

1. Loss AND Mourning.

Mothers raise questions. When they go unanswered, rage takes over
reasoning. While some family narratives seek resolution, or at least
an explanation for the loss experienced by ali the members, others get
stuck on endless dwelling, trapped in the grief that changed the reali-
ties of their life. A loss without closure results in endless mourning,
a State of permanent grief, and an attachment to the past that erases
the present or any possibility of a future. The inability to resolve those
moments of loss from the past coupled with the lack of griefs resolu-
tion, creares what Freud describes as 'melancholia.'

200 Juan Ve lasco

Escandón, who grew up in México City, and spent long periods
of her life in Veracruz, is by no means the first to use loss and melan-
cholia as a vehicle for literary expression. Loss is as fundamental to
Latin American iiterature as it is to the Western canon. But to really
understand Escandón's use of loss in the context of Latin American
cultural studies and its relationships to literary representation, we
must place the matter in its historical context. Loss and melancholia
have played an important role in contemporary Latin American litera-
ture. We need only recall Juan Rulfo's novel Pedro Páramo (1955) and
Octavio Paz's El laberinto de la soledad [The Labyrinth of Solitude]
(1950) to understand the considerable influence these issues have had
on the Latin American psyche.

Loss and the consequences of mourning explain to a great degree
w^hat Rulfo achieved at the peak of the Latin American modernist
period. Pedro Páramo is not less than the most haunting state of
erasure prescribed by the idea of loss in a specific symbolic setting.
Cómala (the mythical city of Pedro Páramo) portrays a perplexing
state of perpetual loss that permeates all 'existence.' This place, usu-
ally associated with the Latin American cultural and politicai state of
affairs since W^WII, in many v^ays anticipates what Moreiras describes
as the exhaustion of 'difference.' Rulfo's prophetic predictions on
the limitations of the Latin American signifier (the sign of 'Mexican
identity' in this case), involve not only the demise of the Revolution
itself but its co-option by the politicai and economic forces at work
since the 1950's. The result is a fixation on the father, with its mode
of representation a monumental historical vacuum boxed by endless
grief. Octavio Paz's The Labyrinth of Solitude reinforces this fixation
on loss and the infinite solitude that emanates from this state of the
culture. And for Paz, it is the archetype of La Malinche (the Mexican
Eve), that articulates the absence of the father, the Mexican's sense
of (pathological) melancholia, and the loss of culture. Neil Larsen's
Modernism and Hegemony: A Materialist Critique of Aesthetic
Agencies argües for the cultural agency of the modernist aesthetics
taken by these two writers during this period. He argües that Rulfo's
mode of representation is an ideological and (negative) essentialist
statement on the identity of Mexican culture:

The aura of 'culture' that emerges from this vacuum has in
its turn, however its own repressive logic. Culture in itself

Santitos: Loss, the Catholic Sleuth, and the Transnational Mestiza Consciousness 201

becomes the naturalizing and dehistoricizing containment
of what is otherwise potentially an emergence of a par-
ticular counterrrationality directly opposed to that of the
absent of state mediation. (Larsen 64)

But what Rulfo and Paz's states of melancholia, as the archetypal
representation of the Latin American 'being,' imply is not so much a
condemnation of the Revolution itself as the exhaustion of its signs of
representation. Both writers underHne the impossibiUty (Cómala and
the labyrinth being archetypes of a culture trapped in endless mourn-
ing), of coming into a closure with the loss of the (state) 'father' after
the failure of the revolutionary impulse of the 1920's. This is especially
pertinent for contemporary Mexican Literature since two of the most
influential writers since the 1950's use the aesthetics of melancholia
to make the readers aware of the politicai and cultural losses implied
by the spread of modernity.

What does it mean, then, to enter the discourse of loss, mourning
and cultural identity during the 1990's? Will Latin American writing
be condemned, after being unable to heal the loss, to dwell in Paz's
solitude or Comala's pathological melancholia?

Escandón brings back the question in new and creative ways.
Esperanza uses both faith and rage, moving between insight and mad-
ness, as ways of disrupting the pathological melancholia affecting the
mode of representation of Latin American culture since the 1950's.
Surprisingly, these disruptions are performed through a sort of 'public
theology' with heavy roots in the popular — apparitions, saints, miracles
and other signs of Mexican Catholic spirituality. But Escandón uses
these miracles to move into the ethical realm and beyond the tradi-
tional aesthetics of Magicai Realism. In fact, she redefines the notion
of the national absent 'father' with the more transnational symbol of
the 'mother' — the Virgin of Guadalupe. Max Stackhouse, in the lecture
entitled "Globalization, Public theology, and New Means of Grace,"
defines public theology as that which "[. . ,] generates a faith-full
worldview, recovers and recasts certain pertinent historie themes in
the history of theology that bear on globalization, and challenges any
trends in theology that sees ali normative claims as privileged to specific
gender, ethnic, social, or convictional groups" (5). Santitos generates
this 'public theology,' through the constant investigation of her loss, and
the exploration of those places in-between that refuse easy solutions.

202 Juan Velasco

In fact, her box of saints articulates the connection berween those two
aspects through the exploration of its "empty spaces." During her long
trip north, the box where she keeps her saints becomes the connection
with the memory of her daughter: "En el otro brazo llevaba una caja
de cartón voluminosa y difícil de cargar. En un costado había escrito
con marcador: 'Frágil. Santos.' La apretaba contra su pecho igual que
si se tratara de un bebé. Su contenido resonaba dentro como si fuera un
ser vivo que trataba de escapar" (78) ["In the other arm she carried a
voluminous cartón box that was difficult to carry. In one of the corners
she had written with a marker: 'Fragile. Saints.' She held on to it against
her chest like it was a baby. The insides of the box sounded as if there
was a living person trying to escape"]. The box of saints recreares in
humorous and creative ways the emptiness left by loss and migration,
and this commonality becomes one of the main ways of coUapsing
her personal grief with the social. The box of saints allows her also to
genérate a public theology through careful attention played to the gaps
created by loss. Joan Copjec, paraphrasing Lefort, states that:

Someone dies and leaves behind his place, which outlives
him and is unfiUable by anyone else. This idea constructs
a specific notion of the social, wherein it is conceived to
consist not only of particular individuais and their relations
to each other, but also as a relation to these unoccupiable
places. The social is composed, then, not just of those
things that will pass, but also of relations to empty places
that will not. (Copjec 23)

If Pedro Páramo and The Lahyrinth of Solitude believe these
places to be past, and therefore absent objects of mourning, Santitos
looks at the 'relations' to the empty places as the present fabric of the
social. This form of hopeful melancholia is set in the present allow-
ing for a creative reformulation of grief. Her box of saints 'embodies'
these relations to empty places in the present, and becomes a creative
force as it extends the way mourning becomes interwoven with other
people's losses and border crossings. As this becomes one of the main
issues addressed through Esperanza's loss, Escandón constructs a
clever narrative structure that pushes beyond the traditional assump-
tions of Magicai Realism and contemporary Latina fiction. It is not
surprising that through her loss Esperanza becomes a witness for

Santitos: Loss, the Catholic Sleuth, and the Transnatiotwl Mestiza Consciousness 203

those undocumented and exploited by the borden Her box of saints,
embodying the relations to empty places, is simuhaneously a reminder
of her personal loss, and the tool that brings her closer to the prosti-
tutes, abandoned children, wrestlers, and a large representation of the
marginalized on both sides of the border. The melancholia as pathol-
ogy is transformed into a positive form of melancholia that offers
hope, community and growth. With each character, and with each tale
told from this subaltern community, Esperanza gains new insights into
the dynamics of the relationship between Chicano and Mexican life
in the Southwest. Loss is taken beyond the pathology of melancholia
as the signifier of representation, and her identity expands into a
border identity, a discovery of a 'larger' community which implies the
Mexican on the other side of the border, but also the blurred relation-
ship between the dead and the living — the undead.

2. A Latina Catholic Sleuth.

How Santitos takes loss and transforms it into the aesthetics of the
transnational mestiza consciousness is indeed one of the many accom-
plishments of this narrative. The underlying structure of the work
is ontological — a search for the truth in the midst of loss. This loss,
the death of her only child, forces her into a spiritual and emotional
search; she is forced into reorientation in the face of death, and forced
to experience múltiple cultural and emotional landscapes. But what
happens if after the initial catalyst, the meaning of loss itself becomes
the main object of her search? And what are the strategies involved
in order to make the reader part of this journey?

Richard Raskin states in "The Pleasures and Politics of Detective
Fiction" that there are at least three main theories explaining the psy-
chological appeal of detective fiction: the ludic (which emphasizes the
inclusión of the reader), the wish fulfillment (gratification is the central
element of the narrative), and the tensión reducing (the narrative struc-
ture of the novel being able to dispel any kind of emotional feelings).
As Escandón is shaping and remaking the traditional analytic detective
work, it is important to notice that Santitos belongs to the first one:
she lets the reader "[. . .] enjoy the writer's virtuosity in playing with
and against the convention of the genre" (76). The advantages of this
strategy are clear: Esperanza's journey in the direction of new communi-
ties is extended beyond the limitations of the text — there is an implicit
invitation to us, the readers, to do the same kind of sharing.

204 Juan Ve lasco

Like many contemporary works of the twentieth century, Escandón
borrows key literary techniques from the traditional detective form:
self-consciousness as a central theme, the quest for absolute truth, text
as a labyrinth, bipolar oppositions, and geographic symbolism. Like
the traditional detective, Esperanza is given a mystery (her ioss) to
solve and completes the task by carefully considering all the evidence
at her disposal. But as she continues using the traditional analytic
detective techniques, she also experiments with form, creating new
methods of interplay between the detective (a mother), the victim (her
daughter), and the murderer (God). Esperanza is also a different kind
of detective. Escandón creares a blend of idiosyncratic and sympa-
thetic qualities that fuse religión and humor, feminism and adventure.
If Esperanza is a new Sherlock Holmes, Saint Jude (and her box of
saints) is her Dr. Watson. Furthermore, this detective is not only a mix
of prostitute and compassionate mother; she also brings a humorous
dissolution to the roles by w^hich women have been classified within
patriarchal societies. Breaking away from the whore/ mother para-
digm, Esperanza is a different hero on a quixotic quest. As she traveis
from Tlacotalpan (Veracruz) to Tijuana, from Tijuana to Los Angeles
and then back again, Esperanza confronts the meaning of her Ioss with
the precisión and sophistication of a modern Catholic sleuth.

As we learn from the mystery posed as kidnapping, the search for
the truth about the Ioss of her daughter becomes for the reader the
hook that makes him/her keep reading. The reader is included in the
process of transformation and awareness that leads to the discovery
of a true sense of community. Furthermore, the novel functions like a
puzzle to be solved. The reader receives múltiple perspectives on the
events, and Escandón keeps the reader guessing as she supplies bits
and pieces of the Information not entirely understood until the book
and the story are completed.

An intímate relationship between Esperanza and the reader is
established from the very beginning as we listen to this warm act
of a confession: "Debí decírselo la vez pasada que vine a confesión,
pero no me atreví. Las palabras me dieron la espalda, como amigas
desleales" (11) ["I should have told him the last time I came to con-
fession, but I did not attempt to do it. The words turned their back
on me like disloyal friends"]. With this statement, the reader becomes
one with Esperanza's spiritual tribulations, becoming part of the
work, he or she interacts with the characters and draws conclusions.

Santitos: Loss, the Catholic Sleuth, and the Transnational Mestiza Consciousness 205

Through this privileged position, the reader gains access also to the
greater community of the border-crossers and the space they inhabit.
The reader not only becomes part of the text, but also gets a sense
of the greater community Esperanza is discovering. This involves an
American judge, Scott Haynes, with a fixation for mothers; Trini,
the transgender who is the most famous brothel-keeper in Tijuana;
Paloma, the homeless girl; Angel, the wrestler she falis in love with,
etc. Through this progressive production of meaning, the reader
becomes acculturated into the community of the border, growing
familiar with the customs and unspoken norms of the marginal people
we encounter through Esperanza's journey.

We should not underestimate the forces of the journey since this
is the second reverse to the traditional analytic detective work. It is
in the postponing of the inevitable truth that Esperanza gathers the
strength to push the boundaries of the unknown and the insights that
bring cultural and spiritual renewal. The journey sometimes signifies
suffering, but along with this there is also endurance, perseverance,
and a deep sense of faith that valúes laughter, womanhood and hope.
The novel points at the truth as the inevitable — the quest. And it is in
this quest, and not in the answers, where she becomes one with her
loss. Esperanza's hope is firmly rooted in her conception of loss and
mourning, popular Catholic spirituality, her border crossing experi-
ence and the search for a new consciousness. Loss is transformed into
an awareness of the greater community, the rainbow of characters
and border-crossers that facilitate her cultural and spiritual libera-
tion. This strategy becomes the link with the practices by which loss
is "[. . .] materialized in the social and the cultural realms and in the
politicai and the aesthetic domains" (Eng & Kazanfian 5). In the
uncertain border, the present quality of her loss, Esperanza is able to
forge a consciousness and a sense of grief that allows space for self-
empowerment. As Esperanza escapes the isolation of her life, the quest
for the truth opens up her view of the world. Framing the investiga-
tion within the context of the journey allows for the novel to explore
simultaneously individual and social self-empowerment.

Borrowing from the detective analytic story, Santitos builds "[. . .]
a continuous engagement with loss and its remains [that] generates
sites for memory and history, for the rewriting of the past as well as
the reimagining of the future." (Eng & Kazanfian 4). The mystery
then becomes the mourning subject, and this aspect of investigation

206 Juan Ve lasco

allows her to embark into a journey of self-restoration, of integration
of the missing pieces of her Ufe. Through her initial refusal of closure,
Esperanza learns how to investígate uncertainty, be fearless in the
journey, and respectful to the mystery of her 'mourning remains.'
In the face of trauma and loss, the negative energies of loss are tem-
porarily suspended, then transformed into endless creativity. This
relationship between the particular and the totaUty gives to Escandón's
work a form of expression to recapture a new consciousness and its
relationship with history.

3. The New Mestiza's Consciousness.

Santitos is also at its heart a tale of self-searching and the birth of
a new consciousness. A child dies and it turns out that faith and
the analytical detective skills of Esperanza, with the help of several
border crossings, provide the transformation. But what changes in
the narrative is not so much loss (death) as Esperanza's role as a wife
and mother. To a visión of the world comprised by passivity and sub-
mission, Santitos postulates a visión of Esperanza as a questioning
individual and border crosser.

Esperanza's border-crossings and her practices as a female sleuth,
subvert the symbolic nature assigned to women within Mexican and
Catholic traditional culture. Escanden uses humor to reverse the dis-
course imposed on the feminine (the dialectics of mother/whore as the
only roles of access to power for women), and Esperanza goes in and
out of these roles, never letting any of them touch her deepest search for
a new self. As humor dissolves the false boundaries of the paradigm, it
also shows the repressive nature of the Mexican nationalist discourse
imposed on the feminine. The conflicting articulation of gender and
identity can be traced back to the creation of a Mexican 'revolution-
ary' culture during the 1920s and 1930s. The contemporary patriarchal
visión of Mexican identity will be reinforced later by the analysis of
the Mexican self in Octavio Paz's The Labyrinth ofSolitude during the
1950's. Paz's construction of the archetype of La Malinche as linked
to the 'loss' of the original Mexican (Malintzin being the mother of all
mestizos), creares a visión of the feminine radically antithetical to the
discourse of 'Mexican' identity and nationalism. As his discourse posi-
tions the original 'mother' of all Mexicans at the roots of betrayal and
loss, the paradigm of nation-state, identity and creativity shifts towards
patriarchy and a pathological sense of melancholia.

Santitos: Loss, the Catholic Sleuth, and the Transnational Mestiza Consciousness 207

Escandón's new sense of identity emerges from a discourse of
Mexican identity that gives meaning to the lives of people in the
margins, and her insights are born out of the complexities of the dual
consciousness of the Border and an ali embracing 'mother' — the Virgin
of Guadalupe. As Esperanza expands her consciousness into the greater
cultural community of México and the U.S. Southwest, a space emerges
that helps bring a sense of interconnectedness and history among
Mexicans and Chicanos living in the United States. The real innovation
of Santitos is the attempt to sitúate personal loss within the frame of
border crossing and its economic, psychological and spiritual conse-
quences. Escanden speaks of loss in a multifaceted way that "allow us
to understand the lost object as continually shifting both spatially and
temporally, adopting new perspectives and meanings, new social and
politicai consequences, along the way"(Eng & Kazanfian 5). In fact as
Esperanzaos search takes her to Tijuana, she also discovers the experi-
ence of crossing illegally. Referring to the saint of the undocumented
border crossers (Juan Soldado, not recognized officially by the church),
the narrator points at how he was "[. . .] un pobre desgraciado, como
nosotros. Aquí necesitamos más santos que en otras partes. Esperanza
también necesitaba más santos, ahora que estaba decidida a cruzar
la frontera" (132) ["[. . .] a poor disgrace, just like us. We need more
saints here than in other parts. Esperanza also needed more saints, now
that she had decided to cross the border J.

Within this context involving the sociopolitical situation and
cultural production in both sides of the border, Escanden also uses a
specific spiritual image that expresses best the space of the 'transna-
tional-mestiza' experience: The Virgin of Guadalupe. In this novel,
both Mexican and Chicano popular Catholic spirituality are joined
by the devotion to the Mother. This symbol becomes a tool for both
deconstructing geographical separations and facilitating the inclusión
of a space of consciousness in-between cultures. Furthermore, there
are intrinsic emancipatory cultural valúes associated with the decon-
struction of the other 'mother' of all Mexicans. Escandón is able to
replace the negative connotations of La Malinche, created by the offi-
cial discourse of nation-state, with one that takes part in a tradition
that theorizes mestizaje and a popular religious faith as the basis for a
cultural and spiritual greater community of hope. Escandón not only
reverses the logic of patriarchal structure and its pathology of loss, but
also offers a spiritual and geographical reconstruction of a 'Mexican'

208 Juan Velasco

identity beyond borders. It is not by chance that Esperanza finds her
consciousness in the midst of her reflections on the 'mother' as she
remembers two moments of her Ufe associated with México and the
México of the other side of the borden Remembering the same Virgin
of Guadalupe painted in one of the murais of East Los Angeles, and
the one in México City, Esperanza again asks to her Dr. Watson (San
Judas Tadeo) for guidance. It is then, in this new understanding of
her loss (a climatic moment that seáis her moment of consciousness)
that Esperanza is able to return home: "Por fin sé lo que me quiso
decir San Judas Tadeo. Blanca no está muerta. Blanca no está viva.
Está en ese espacio pequenito entre lo uno y lo otro. Ahí es donde
debí buscarla" (218) ["At last I know what San Judas Tadeo wanted
to tell me. Blanca is not dead. Blanca is not alive. She is in that small
space between the one and the other. It was there vvere I should have
looked for her"].

It is at his point that 'home' is recreated as the discovery of a
larger community that extends not only beyond borders but also
beyond the borders of life and death. The fact the Blanca, her daugh-
ter, can still be contacted in the spaces in-between life and death
allows for Esperanza a new sense of reality, connected to spiritual and
sociopolitical insights. The re-elaboration of this tradition of heteroge-
neity and hybridization (using the Virgin of Guadalupe as a symbol)
is transformed into a space in between that unites popular Catholic
spirituality, feminist awareness and an aesthetics of border-crossing.

To loss and mourning, Santitos responds with a quest that gives
new meanings to self-consciousness. Transforming loss into laughter,
adventure into spiritual insight, the border crossings become journeys
of self-empowerment and redemption, of faith searching for human
dignity and truth that naturally gives rise to the connecting features
of the greater cultural communities not divided by borders. In a new
more complex type of heroism, the heroine acts from a sense of moth-
erhood whose faith allows her to witness the downfall of melancholia
as pathology. Self-empowerment takes over loss, and a new conscious-
ness emerges at the end. In many ways Santitos radical crossings
corresponds to Bhabha's 'savage hybridity,' defined by Moreiras as
"[. . .] the radicalization of the reticent versión of cultural hybridity on
the basis of its constitutive negativity: it turns a reticent understanding
of cultural change into a principie of counterhegemonic praxis, and
it places it at the service of the subaltern position in the constitution

Santitos: Loss, the Catholic Sleuth, and the Transnational Mestiza Consciousness 209

of the hegemonic system" (296). This is relevant to our initial discus-
sion of the conditions for a new Latin American discourse and the
exhaustion of the process of differentiated repetition. As many critics
question the role of Latin American discourse in an increasing culture
of globalization, Escandón gives loss a new value as crossings become
not only the distinctive sign of the narrative but also the bridge con-
necting different geographical cultural traditions, blurring the spiritual
territories of grief and creativity and the construction of a new con-
sciousness. In the light of her border-crossings, Esperanza awakens to
new sexual and spiritual experiences, to a new understanding of her
role as a mother, and a consciousness as a transcultural mestiza that
creates bridges connecting the Mexican and the Chicano experience.
Escandón explores (literally) the spaces in-between that escape the
homogenizing control of both national states (the Mexican and the
American), and transforms Esperanza's border crossings into vehicles
that define both a cultural and spiritual policy, I find this particularly
interesting, as the novel seems to suggest that it is the nation-state
that legislates a pathological past-bound form of melancholia, as
opposed to the hope, present-bound melancholia of Esperanza. In the
spiritual world of Esperanza the solution to the mystery of loss comes
back over and over again through the pursuing of the journey, the
discovery of self-realization and the building of a greater community
of hope. This positive re-elaboration of melancholia (which could be
called a 'hopeful melancholia') within the Latin American tradition
of hybridity becomes the element that unites the spiritual and the cul-
tural, the geographical journey and individual self-empowerment. In
The Limits of Autobiography: Trauma and Testimony, Leigh Gilmore
argües that "[. . .] placing a personal history of trauma within a col-
lective history compels one to consider that cultural memory, like
personal memory, possesses 'recovered' or 'repressed' memories, and
also body (or body politic) memories of minoritized trauma like racial
and sexual violence" (31-32). In this novel, personal trauma placed in
the collective history of the Southwest is transformed into metaphors
of healing through hybridism, border-crossings, and the search for
a space from which one can propitiate the reconstruction of a com-
munity able to transcend the separation of borders — a 'transnational
mestiza consciousness.' Furthermore, the emancipatory valúes of this
transnational mestiza consciousness theorize a new space that creates
a link between personal loss, grief, melancholia, and the trauma of

210 Juan Velasco

historical legacies, such as imposed borders (the Treaty of Guadalupe
Hidalgo), migration or globalization.

The most important aspect of Santitos as a detective novel, how-
ever, is the solution. This 'solution' to the mistery of loss and grief
seems to emanate also from her own daughter's border identity in that
space in-between living and death. Despite the actions of Esperanza
and her practices as a female sleuth, the novel postulates a visión
of a world comprised not of specific outstanding individuais but of
spiritual interconnectedness and community. Escandón's novel with
its analytic detective structure, produces an on-going investigation
on loss, trauma and the struggle of the marginalized that ultimately
recapture spiritual interconnectedness and the community experience
on both sides of the border.

This culture of transnational crossings becomes the quest for abso-
lute consciousness, a totalizing perspective that has to be redefined
by the reader given the evidence: the text. The aesthetics of Santitos
becomes a cali for the reader to construct alternative stories, vv^hich,
in turn, become also alternative to the official History. Through these
strategies the reader is exposed to the spiritual, cultural and historical
truths of Esperanza as a border-crosser's historical legacy of trauma.
As a result, it proposes in its place, a new space, a new history, repre-
sented by the new consciousness. Through this intellectual challenge
the reader is allowed to get closer to the truth of the experience of
this peopie, become a participant in this search for self-empowerment,
and recapture the meaning of loss in this geographical área. Escandón
creates a metastructure that at certain times engages in the particular
and at others, in the universal mysteries of life and death, sacrifice
and redemption. Because of her faith, an unbreakable spirit drives her
search; because of her refusal to fixed solutions, her energy is endless.
Esperanza also finds meaning in search of her past, her relationships,
and the truth about how she was displaced from her traditional role
in the family by the loss of both her husband and her only child. And
what the reader discovers through the knowledge of history and facts
(this evidence is announced by Ángel) is that "1. . .] la esperanza es lo
ultimo que muere" l"Hope is the last thing that dies"].

Santitos: Loss, the Catholic Sleuth, and the Transnational Mestiza Consciousness 211

Note

1 . Ali translations from Spanish to English are my own unless otherwise
)ted.

Works Cited

Copjec, Joan. Imagine There is No Woman: Ethics and Sublimation.

Cambridge, MA: MIT, 2002.
Eng, David L. and David Kazanjian, cds. Loss: The Politics of Mourning.

Berkeley, CA: UC Press, 2003.
Escandón, Maria Amparo. Santitos. Barcelona: Plaza Janes Editores, 1999.
Gilmore, Leigh. Limits of Autobiography: Trauma and Testimony. Ithaca,

NY:Cornell, 2001.
Larsen, Neil. Modernism and Hegemony: A Materialist Critique of Aesthetic

Agencies. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota Press, 1990.
Moreiras, Alberto. The Exhaustion of Difference: The Politics of Latin

American Cultural Studies. Durham: Duke UP, 2001.
Paz, Octavio. The Labyrinth of Solitude. New York: Grove Press, 1985.
Raskin, Richard. "The Pleasures and Politics of Detective Fiction." Clues: A

Journal of Detection. 13:2 (1992): 71-113.
Rulfo, Juan. Pedro Páramo. Barcelona: Editorial Planeta, 1975.
Stackho, Max. "Globalization, Public theology, and New Means of Grace."

The Santa Clara Lectures. 9:2 (2003): 1-24.

Reviews

BENÍTEZ, RUBÉN. Bécquer y la tradición de la lírica popular.
Zaragoza: Anejos de El gnomo. Colección Desde mi celda., 2005.

Over the course of his academic career, Rubén Benítez has
deservedly achieved renown, in this country as well as abroad, as a
distinguished and prolific critic of nineteenth century Spanish letters.
Figuring among his considerable contributions to this field are his
important studies of such literary icons as Benito Pérez Galdós [La lit-
eratura española en las obras de Galdós., 1992; Cervantes en Galdós.,
1990); Mariano José de Larra [Mariano José de Larra, 1979); and
especially Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer [Ensayo de bibliografía razonada
de Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer, 1961; Bécquer tradicionalista, 1971).
The most recent addition to his extensive list of Bécquer publications
is Bécquer y la tradición de la lírica popular, a compact but dense
exploration of the sources, origins, and influences that helped shape
the Sevillian poet's art. As he states in the book's preface, Benítez's pur-
pose — and challenge — in undertaking this latest work, is to disprove
those who, while admiring the lyric simplicity and emotionally affect-
ing nature of Bécquer's writings, erroneously ascribe those qualities
to a kind of ingenuous artlessness, a natural gift of puré inspiration.
On the contrary, Benítez argües persuasively, the "authentic" Bécquer,
not an "academic" poet or even highly educated in a formal sense,
was nevertheless undeniably familiar with and receptive to the diverse
elements that collectively defined the European cultural climate of
the time. These myriad currents — the high and low, centuries-old and
modern, poetic, musical, rhetorical, and philosophical — converged
with his abiding devotion to the tradition of the popular lyric, and
from this convergence Bécquer forged his own distinctive esthetic.

Bécquer y la tradición de la lírica popular is divided into four
parts, the first of which examines the theory underlying Bécquer's
"estética del sentimiento." The intímate expression of deeply-rooted
feelings, complemented by the formal simplicity typically found in
popular poetry and song, were not only the essential components of
his concept of poetry; they were also the primary reason his work
stood apart from that of his contemporaries. Benítez points out that
Bécquer's Rimas represent the culmination of a lyric tradition whose
origins can be found in Arable love poetry; at the same time, the out-
pouring of passion compressed into simple, unadorned forms are the
common currency of the popular lyric.

MESTER, VOL. XXXVI (2007) 215

216 Reviews

Benítez traces numerous fundamental influences on Bécquer's
work, both direct and indirect. For example, the poet's familiarity
with Condillac's antirationalist theories about the role of the senses
and memory in the imaginative process carne by way of Alberto Lista 's
teachings as expounded in Ensayos literarios y críticos. Lista believed
that sentimiento originares in the soul and thus provides the very
structure on which poetry is built. This is not far from the poet's own
definition: in his Cartas literarias a una mujer, he equates poetry with
love, and love with religión. Similarly, for Lista, the two cornerstones
of poetry are spirituality and love: the former is variously exemplified
by the Psalms, San Juan de la Cruz, Milton, and Chateaubriand; the
models for the latter are encountered in the poetry of Petrarch and
Fernando de Herrera.

Not unexpectedly, one of the key sections of Bécquer y la
tradición de la lírica popular is the discussion of the three class of
poetry: namely, natural, primitive, and popular. Some elements of
Hebrew and Arabic verse are identified as natural poetry, whereas
primitive poetry, presumably that of undeveloped civilizations, is best
represented by the books of the Oíd Testament, Eastern literature,
and the Caledonian bards, most particularly Ossian. The literature
that spontaneously arises among the common people is defined as
popular poetry: in the view of Manuel Milá y Fontanals, while el
pueblo does not compose poetry, the continuai changes, modifications
and additions effected over time amount to "[. . .] una elaboración
colectiva del texto" (59). Bécquer considered Augusto Ferrán to be
Spain's first popular poet and in fact, the ideais delineated by Ferrán
in La Soledad, (i.e., communication of personal feelings, simple forms,
musical rhythms) are among those to which Bécquer himself aspired in
his Rimas. Interestingly, the Rimas are not popular poetry per se since
it is, as even Bécquer recognized, literally inimitable. Still, according
to Rubén Benítez, the inextricable melding of popular elements and
intense personal emotions in the Rimas marked a new milestone in
the history of the Spanish lyric.

As explained in "Modelos," the second part of Bécquer y la
tradición de la lírica popular, Bécquer saw himself as a repository of
the Spanish lyric tradition. He cited any number of Spanish authors
in his arricies, but claimed three in particular as his dioses penates.
Garcilaso de la Vega, in his perception, was the paradigm of artistic
perfection, of Spanish national valúes and, in short, of the Spanish

Reviews 217

soul. Bécquer held "the divine" Fernando de Herrera in high esteem
as well, primarily thanks to his love poetry, and even contemplated
writing a novel based on Herrera's unrequited love for the Countess
of Gelves. The third member of the trinity was Francisco de Rioja,
whose Silvas provided Bécquer with an exemplar of visual imagery,
especially the delicately nuanced colors and shades of Rioja's flower
imagery. Garcilaso, Herrera and Rioja, whose depiction of feminine
beauty conformed to the same inaccessible ideal invoked by so many
painters of the Italian Rennaissance, was embraced by the Romantics,
and later absorbed within Bécquer's personal visión and style, surfac-
ing in such Leyendas as "El rayo de luna."

Furthermore, the ephemeral visión of woman we encounter in
that legend is, in Benítez's judgment, at least partially due not to the
influence of one Bécquer's compatriots, but to Ossian, the fictitious
bard created by the Scot James Macpherson, and another significam
presence in the Spaniard's early verses. Appearing in the ode, "A
Quintana," for example, are such typically Ossianic motifs as mist
and harps, the latter first identified as such by Dámaso Alonso. At
the same time, Bécquer's image of death, we learn, comes not from
his lived experience in Andalucía, but instead from his youthful read-
ing of Ossian.

Perhaps of even greater import is Bécquer's familiarity with the
art and literature of Islam, and with the ideas, sights and sounds
of the East in general. His fascination with Moorish architecture,
for instance, is evinced in Historia de los templos de España, while
his first leyenda, "El caudillo de las manos rojas" demonstrates the
author's profound identification with the Eastern world. Imitating
Oriental writing techniques and style — the cióse association of music
and word, the expression of love and other emotions, the portrayal of
nature as if filtered through mist and visited by spirits. Also intrigued
by the East and an ardent devote of the third-century poet Eben
al Rumi, Lord Byron was a special inspiration to Bécquer, whose
Melodías andaluzas was an obvious imitation of the English poet's
Hebrew Melodies. The Germán poet Heinrich Heine was another
early influence for the Rimas, as were Victor Hugo and José Zorrilla,
both of whom had knowledge of the Arable poetic tradition.

The third section of Bécquer y la tradición de la lírica popular
deals with the poet's use of the conventions and forms of popular
poetry. As Benítez makes clear, Bécquer's generation customarily read

218 Reviews

the ancient romances, but also the "modern" romances written by
Zorrilla and the Duque de Rivas. Some of the leyendas incorpórate
tales and formal characteristics borrowed from the romances, yet
the narrative quality of that typically Spanish genre appealed less to
the poet and his contemporaries than the balada's more lyrical style.
Benítez shows how Bécquer, from childhood on, had a singular inter-
est in the imaginary creatures of Scandinavian and Northern European
lore, so it is no surprise that such legends as "La Corza blanca," "El
rayo de luna," and "Los ojos verdes" do not take place in Andalusian
or even Spanish settings; they are related instead to Anglo-Saxon or
Germanic traditions. As for the copla, only two or three of the Rimas
conform perfectly to the definition of that popular genre, with its char-
acteristically epigrammatic conclusión. Yet the copla was not without
significance to Bécquer, since he incorporated two coplas into the
narration of the tragic leyenda "La venta de los gatos." Indeed, in his
perception the very spirit of the copla resided in the poetic expression
of anguish and desperation, and these are precisely the tones resonat-
ing throughout Bécquer's work as a whole.

In the fourth section of the book, "Rasgos internos," Benítez
turns his attention to the strategies Bécquer employed in transforming
emotions into poetry. Critics have routinely identified as integral to
popular poetry the direct expression of feeling, formal simplicity, and
musicality (184), but these characteristics are not the exclusive domain
of popular poetry. Rather, the relationship between poesía popular and
poesía culta is mutually enriching, as the example of Bécquer clearly
illustrates. The conversational tone of the Rimas is akin to the confes-
sional quality of the epistolary genre — a tone achieved by Bécquer's
conscious use of oral elements typically found in the traditional lyric.
Among the poet's arsenal of resources are repetitions, fixed phrases,
epithets, antitheses, refrains — signs of orality that facilítate memory,
imbue the verses with temporality, and thus underscore the ephemeral
quality of the emotions expressed. As is true of popular poetry in
general, rhetorical devices and figurative language are infrequent in
the Rimas, whereas símiles, primitive poetry 's most natural form of
expression, abound. In Benítez's analysis, the frequency of the simile
suggests "[. . .] una actitud casi ontológica, lya quel Bécquer descu-
bre en la realidad esencias ocultas que la transforman en un universo
espiritualizado y misterioso" (217). By the same token, the diversity
of rhythms in Bécquer, the constant alternation between long and

Revietvs 219

short lines, the regular recurrence of parallelisms so often found in
the Psalms and other Hebrew religious verse, infuse the poetry with
a distinctly musical quality reminiscent at once of Germán Heder and
Andalusian cantares^ — again, popular models that the poet, himself
adept at both piano and guitar, consciously imitated. For Rubén
Benítez, the instances of Rimas set to music — Tomás Bretón and the
young Albéniz, to name two — and the number of musical composi-
tions written as parodies, are irrefutable evidence not only of the
estimable musicality of Bécquer's writing, but also of their ability to
endure in the readers' memory.

In his epilogue, the author elaborares precisely on the question
of the durability of the popular tradition and specifically, of the
Sevillian poet's continuing importance in Spanish letters. To illustrate
the former, Benítez cites no less than Lope de Vega, who authored his
own Rimas in 1609, and who identified almost completely with the
Spanish pueblo. The Romantics too imitated popular poetic forms,
and Antonio Machado theorized later about how a poeta culto
might "hacerse pueblo" in order to better imitate popular models.
Machado's contemporary, Miguel de Unamuno, was also inspired to
imitate the Rimas, while the puré, unadorned elegance of Bécquer's
verses was admired and emulated variously by the modernists, Juan
Ramón Jiménez, the poets of the 1937 generation, Rafael Alberti.
To Carlos Bousoño, Bécquer embodied the poetic expression of pro-
found emotion and created a visión of evanescent worlds that in turn
redoubled the importance of the symbol.

With Bécquer y la tradición de la lírica popular Rubén Benítez
has made an invaluable contribution not only to readers of Gustavo
Adolfo Bécquer, but to those interested in the history of Spanish
popular poetry and, indeed, of Spanish poetry generally. The volume
concludes with the previously published "Bécquer en sus textos (El
arte de la corrección)." A most felicitous choice, since it is here that
Benítez most convincingly argües his thesis that, far from being the
ingenio lego he has been mistakenly reputed to be, his creative pro-
cesses and, even more significantly, his methods of self-correction,
demónstrate conclusively that Bécquer was steeped in the theory and
the practice of the traditional popular lyric, utterly mindful of his
creative choices and, quite possibly, aware that his words, enriched
by his deeply musical sensibility, would endure in the memory of
his readers.

Sylvia Sherno
University of California, Los Angeles

JIMÉNEZ POLANCO, JACQUELINE. Ed. Divagaciones bajo la
luna/Musing under the Moon. Voces e imágenes de lesbianas domi-
nicanas/Voices and Images of Dominican Lesbians. Santo Domingo,
New York: Flacso, 2006. 184 pages.

Divagaciones bajo la luna/Musing under the Moon. Voces e
imágenes de lesbianas dominicanas/Voices and Images of Dominican
Lesbians presenta la oportunidad de adentrarse a un mundo quizá
desconocido por muchos lectores. Este libro trae una variedad de
temas lésbicos que enriquecerán el gusto por el erotismo, la diversidad
y las incógnitas que surgen constantemente sobre la mujer lesbiana
caribeña. A través de sus páginas se encuentran historias refrescantes
pero también testimonios muy profundos sobre decisiones, experien-
cias, modos de vida, miedos, alegrías, en fin emociones que viven las
lesbianas día a día. En ese contar sincero es que radica la novedad del
texto y, por ende, su riqueza académica.

Divagaciones bajo la luna/Musing under the Moon es una anto-
logía de textos escritos por autoras veteranas y no tan veteranas. Las
narraciones fluyen como corrientes de un río a las cuales les urge
llegar a un extenso mar donde allí se les consideren como algo real,
vivido e importante no como simples historias de mujeres lesbianas.
Por lo tanto, el texto es uno realmente lésbico donde todas las auto-
ras son lesbianas, se sienten lesbianas y están preparadas para dejar
fluir sus más íntimos secretos, sentimientos, emociones y preocupa-
ciones sin temor a ser rechazadas o juzgadas. De esta manera, en
Divagaciones encuentran un foro donde sus voces son oídas quizá
por primera vez.

La doctora Jacquehne Jiménez Polanco, editora de esta obra cuya
importancia reside, entre otras cosas, en ser la primera en su género,
alega en el prólogo del texto, que el lugar común de las anécdotas
contadas, ya sean en forma de memorias, poemas, canciones o cuen-
tos, es "[. . .] la experiencia lésbica de cada una [de las escritoras] y
su expresión más genuina" (II). Añade además que todos los relatos
"[. . .] cuestionan y critican la opresión, el rechazo, la negación y
la discriminación que en múltiples y variadas dimensiones ejercen
las sociedades patriarcales contra las mujeres, y sobre todo contra
aquellas que aman a otras mujeres [. . .]" (II). De esta manera, queda
estipulada la política clara y precisa que dirigirá al texto página tras
página. El libro muestra un compromiso hacía el sentir de la mujer

220 MESTER, VOL. XXXVI (2007)

Rei'iews 221

lesbiana contra una sociedad opresora que a través de la historia ha
creado un espacio cerrado, oscuro y poco alentador para ellas. Así el
texto pondrá en relieve los verdaderos sentimientos de estas mujeres
como símbolos del resto de las lesbianas que habitamos el planeta.

Divagaciones bajo la luna/Musing under the Moon contiene nueve
partes que incluyen textos de un género literario específico como la
poesía, las memorias, el cuento y la lírica. La primera parte lleva
por título Una escritora lésbica ... En ella se resaltan pensamientos
cortos pero muy precisos que definen de alguna manera el sentir de
una lesbiana hacía sí misma. En estas breves definiciones se va desde
el sentir lo que es ser lesbiana hasta el compromiso que representa
serlo. En la segunda parte del libro se recopilan memorias. Estas, unas
escritas en inglés, otras en español, resaltan las experiencias vividas de
las lesbianas específicamente en momentos cruciales como: la salida
del tan llamado "closet;" las relaciones materno-filiales y el momento
preciso en que se le comunica, a alguien en particular, por ejemplo,
a la madre, lo que estas mujeres son y sienten; y de forma general, lo
que ha sido vivir siendo dominicanas o dominicanyork y lesbianas.
Lo que hace única esta parte de la obra es la espontaneidad con que
se han escrito estas memorias y el flujo de sentimientos y emociones
que se puede percibir después de cada oración leída o de cada expe-
riencia contada. Todos los relatos memoriales recogen la esencia que
permanece a lo largo de todo el texto y que lo convierte en una obra
de singular importancia que debe ser incluida en el canon literario de
los estudios Lesbian Gay Bisexual Transgender.

En la tercera parte del texto se recopilan dos ensayos que recogen
el tema de la identidad y el género. Aquí cabe destacar el trabajo de
Yuderkis Espinosa Miñoso quien por muchos años se ha dedicado a
los estudios de género/identidad/feminismo en Argentina. Este es un
ensayo profundo que propone el colocarse dentro del sexo opuesto
para de alguna manera asumirlo y así encontrar nuestro propio rol.
Todo dentro de los parámetros sociales establecidos contra esos
parámetros individuales y personales que delinean a cada ser humano
para quien la cuestión de género se convierte en un problema, una
preocupación o simplemente una contradicción. El segundo ensayo,
más informal, por la forma en que se desarrolla, que el primero,
escrito por Dulce Reyes Bonilla, resulta una defensa a lo que es y lo
que significa ser lesbiana. Es decir, en él se expone el por qué se es y
se quiere ser lesbiana.

222 Reviews

La siguiente área la componen una serie de textos líricos donde
se destacan canciones escritas por la canta-autora dominicana Ochy
Curiel y Deyanira García. Todos los textos aquí incluidos gozan de
un agradable y certero ritmo, sin dejar a un lado la pasión y el com-
promiso que las describe. La quinta parte de Divagaciones consta
de poesías. Esta es la sección más extensa del libro, sin embargo,
comparte con el resto la misma exquisitez que define a su totalidad.
Por último, se encuentra el área de la narrativa en la que se destacan
cuentos que lucen por su vocabulario coloquial, juvenil y ameno entre-
lazado por una narrativa deliciosa que envuelve al lector en cada una
de las ficciones que se presentan. En las tres últimas partes del texto
encontramos una corta biografía de cada una de las autoras, una serie
de documentos informativos que incluye el llamado para textos con el
fin de ser incluidos en la obra y la motivación que dirige el haber hecho
realidad un texto como éste. Por último, la doctora Jiménez Polanco
nos facilita el índice de ilustraciones que se incluyen en el texto.

De esta manera queda establecido que, el lector que decida
enfrentarse a este texto encontrará una amalgama de escritos llenos de
profundidad sentimental, de emociones y de experiencias vividas que
proveerán la oportunidad de enfrentarse a una parte de nuestra socie-
dad que a veces se olvida que existe. Divagaciones bajo la luna/Musing
under the Moon. Voces e imágenes de lesbianas dominicanas/Voices
and Images of Dominican Lesbians es un texto innovador, trabajado
con seriedad y con compromiso lo que, precisamente, lo hace una joya
literaria moderna. Es la oportunidad de reflexionar sobre los temas
que en ocasiones socavan el interés público pero que por representar
cohibiciones se eligen callar u obviar. Son precisamente todos estos
componentes lo que hacen del texto una representación de la mujer
lesbiana no tan solo dominicana sino también caribeña.

Joanna Dávila
JJniversity of California, Los Angeles

Memory as Antidote: Remembering Repression from
Latin America to Katrina

KLEIN, NAOMI. The Shock Doctrine. The Rise of Disaster
Capitalism. Toronto: Knopf, 2007. 662 pages.

All shock therapists are intent on the erasure of memory.

RecoUections can be rebuilt, new narratives can be created.
Memory, both individual and collective, turns out to be the
greatest shock absorber of all. (557)

Naomi Klein's new book The Shock Doctrine. The Rise of
Disaster Capitalism recently published in September 2007 is a testa-
ment to the importance of memory. The book addresses the rise of
what she calis "disaster capitalism." Klein is a prize-winner Canadian
journalist who became famous with her book No Logo: Taking Aim
at the Brand Bullies (Picador, 2000). In The Shock Doctrine, Klein
explores how this new brand of economic activity has been on the rise
since the 1950s, developed at the Chicago School of Economics, espe-
cially through the works of economist Milton Friedman, intellectual
leader to the neo-liberal, free-market economy.

The author begins the book with an account of a North-American
doctor who researched shock therapy in the 1950s, Ewen Cameron,
who claimed that to maintain time and space image, two things are
necessary: sensory input and memory (41), and that to erase both is to
recréate a person. Klein draws a parallel between shock therapy and
Friedman's economic shock treatment in the sense that both intend to
erase perception and memory to créate a blank slate, a tabula rasa in
which to impose a "new personality," in the case of Cameron; and a
new economical system, in the case of Friedman. The three tenets of
Friedman's treatment are "[. . .] privatization, deregulation and cuts to
government service" (534). According to Klein, the inauguration of a
practical application of Friedman's doctrine started during Pinochet's
authoritarian regime in Chile in 1973.

Despite being a journalistic account, Klein's new book is thor-
oughly researched, and among its most striking aspects lie the
historical connections drawn between Latin American authoritarian
regimes, Indonesia, South Africa, Poland, Rússia, and China, in order

MESTER, VOL. XXXVI (2007) 223

124 Reviews

to arrive at the present moment: the Iraq occupation, Guantánamo
Bay, Gaza strip conflicts, the 2004 tsunami in Asia, and the 2005
Katrina Hurricane disaster in New Orleans. The scope of the book is
obviously wide. It is a critique of the disastrous aspects of economic
globahzation, and the use of technology to repress and censor, espe-
cially with the advent of a rapidly growing surveillance industry. The
book stresses the importance of remembering history, and the many
terrifying facets of historical amnesia. Klein's account follows the
history of Uteral shock therapy and how the CIA conducted research
on the subject, which was later appHed to Latin American countries,
such as Chile, Argentina, Brazil, Bolivia and Uruguay for interrogation
through the means of torture. She also briefly mentions Nicaragua
and Guatemala.

The importance of this book for Latin American Studies is not
only to remember the thousands who were exiled, arrested, tortured,
and disappeared during the military dictatorships, but this reportage
also connects the politicai situation with economy. What is obvious to
some in the field is, however, rarely stated: the free-market economy
interest behind the military controlled regimes, and especially how
debt accrued after the coups d'états. Those facts may be well known,
but they are only recently remembered, especially when unmask-
ing the strategizing of an intellectual elite directly connected to the
corporate world. Since colonial times, Latin America has suffered
the impacts of imperialism — politicai, economical and cultural — let
alone structural poverty and racism, which have been reinforced by
economical reforms that accompanied the shock treatment required
by the Friedman's doctrine.

The economical shock treatment in Latin America was directly
linked to a fight against developmentalism in the 1950s, which
imposed too many public measures that benefited the people, and
not the wealthy. The author comments that the "[. . .] most advanced
laboratory of developmentalism was [. . .] the Southern Cone" (63),
during a moment of expansión for the región; thus, the regime changes
and direct military interventions in Brazil in 1964, Chile in 1973,
Argentina in 1976, etc. Friedman helped Pinochet draw his economic
plan for Chile, along with other plans sketched by Friedman's stu-
dents, which resulted in the economical "miracle" in 1970s Latin
America. It is a well known fact that the miracles were a mirage, and
the results disastrous to those who were left to pay the debts under

Reviews 225

strict impositions by the IMF and the World Bank. Those countries
that suffered the shock treatment are still recovering at a price of mas-
sive privatization, and very few benefits.

There was a "[. . .] larger plan to impose 'puré' capitalism on
Latin America" (142), and the lesson the military dictatorships taught
US are of a coUective trauma and devastating consequences of repres-
sion. Throughout the books' account of the Argentine, Chilean, and
Brazilian military junta 's impact on those countries, Klein points
out to a rhetoric of cleansing, as though torture was a cure for sick
countries, or at least a lesson to those who opposed their master plan
of liberal economy. Klein also points out to a lack of connection
between politicai conflict and economics in the general perception
or representation of history. The imposition of authoritarian regimes
is indeed connected to economical reforms, which only increase the
disparity between the rich and the poor. This disconnect comes from
an attempt to amnesia, which perpetuates the idea that the privileged
few are spreading freedom and democracy to all.

Klein signáis that the rise of the human rights movement was
sponsored by the same institutions in the United States who had
initially sponsored the dictatorships in Latin America (such as the
Ford Foundation). In her account, human rights activism fails to
take into consideration the economical origins of the abuses. Once
again, Klein reports on a common detachment that seems to ignore
the nuances between politics and economics. For instance, in the
human rights sponsored books called "Never Again," which denounce
torture during the regimes in Latin America, the author claims that
only the Brazilian one has acknowledged the link between economy
and the regime's atrocities. Klein's account presents the struggle for
sovereignty in Latin America as suffering without poetic justice.
She ends the book, however, on a positive note, especially with the
recent resistance of further privatization in places like Bolivia, and
particularly Venezuela.

Initially, the book seems to be symptomatic of its own medicine,
since the images of shock therapy and brutal regimes provoke a cer-
tain discomfort in the reader. Her style is somewhat colorful, and
even didactic at moments, given that she is non-partisan but engaged
in activism against globalization and free-market economies. To say
that Klein's book does not participate in academic argumentation is to
take the book out of context. She makes her claim explicit by linking

226 Reviews

the people involved in the authoritarian regimes in Latin America
with those involved in the war industry, as best exemplified in Iraq.
The United States interventions in Latin America through CIA sup-
port is well known in the field, and the connections Klein makes are
part and parcel of her argumentation. Despite the journalistic tone
and personal accounts, Klein provides facts hard to deny in the face
of an industry that is clearly taking advantage of disasters caused by
mismanagement — as was the case in New Orleans after the Katrina
Hurricane disaster.

Overall, the book discusses the role of the intellectual in policy
making, and how^ an economics doctrine may dominare the market,
and its subsequent impact in the lives of people all over the globe.
The shock doctrine is an exercise of "extreme privatization" (508),
v^hich not only helps to increase the gap between the rich and the
poor to widen, but that also takes advantage of disasters, natural
or politicai. Klein provides a sober account of a brutal history. This
book is important to the intersections between academia and coherent
journalism. In the field of Latin American Studies, the significance of
journalists who braved authoritarian regimes is evident in those who
were persecuted and disappeared during decades of horrors, and who
had to masquerade their work in order to publish. Now, Klein has the
freedom to denounce, as few had in the countries she reports on.

Forgiving might not play a role in Klein's account, but memory
is essential and vital for reconstruction. Klein points out the impor-
tance of grassroots movements and community in countries like
Argentina, Chile and Brazil to rebuild after a collective trauma that
took many lives, imposed brutality, and bankrupted those countries.
The oíd adage "never forget" has taking new meaning while facing an
economic system that insists on effacing all memory. Klein compares
the blank slate and erasure required by both the shock doctrine and
religious fundamentalism: the first with its intentions of erasing his-
tory and starting anew with privare investments; the latter with the
intention of erasing memory for the sake of rapture (561). The book
is a portrait of opportunism, and an ode to remembering.

Alessandra Santos
University of British Columbia, Vancouver

LÓPEZ MORÍN, JOSÉ R. The Legacy of Américo Paredes.
College Station, Texas: Texas A&M UP, 2006. 167 pp.

Like all movements, movements in academia have their origina-
tors, and Américo Paredes (1915-1999) deserves to be considered
as a father-figure of what is today known as Border Studies, namely
the recognition that the boundaries between peoples and cultures are
often dynamic spaces of creativity and conflict, and that the frontier
is seldom a bright hne of demarcation but is instead a porous área
of interchange. Paredes, who taught EngHsh and anthropology at
the University of Texas at Austin for over three decades, is perhaps
best known for his pioneering study of the folk ballads of the Texas-
Mexico borderlands where he grew up, With his Fistol in his Haná:
A Border Bailad and its Hero (1958). Like a latter-day Abraham, Don
Américo (as he was known by students) led his discipHne of Folklore
studies out of the oíd country of romanticism and mythologizing and
into new, dangerous, and promising territories of cultural studies and
ethnography. At least that is the case made in The Legacy of Américo
Paredes by José López Morín, Associate Professor of Chicano Studies
at California State University, Dominguez Hills.

Though concise (167 pages, including notes, bibliography and
Índex), The Legacy of Américo Paredes covers a good deal of ground.
The author, who knew and corresponded with Paredes, offers an
engaging and learned analysis of his life and work. From his birth and
early childhood in Brownsville, Texas, to his years at UT Austin, we
follow Paredes's evolution from a restless teenage poet writing lines
such as "Why was I ever born / Proud of my southern race, / If I must
seek my sun / In an Anglo-Saxon face" (38), into a groundbreaking
scholar who would challenge the assumptions of folklore, anthropol-
ogy, and ethnography, and along the way help give birth to the new
field of Chicano Studies.

Written in a clear and appealing prose, this book will be of inter-
est to teachers of undergraduate courses in American Latino literature
or ethnic studies as well as sénior scholars interested in situating
Paredes's oeuvre within the contemporary criticai framework. For
those without specialized knowledge of the American Southwest,
López Mórin's study begins with some useful background on the his-
tory of the Mexico-Texas borderlands, dating back to the time of the
first Spanish explorations. According to the author, after a turbulent

MESTER, VOL. XXXVI (2007) 227

228 Reviews

initial period of attempted colonization and indigenous resistance, a
unique and advantageous modus vivendi developed along the Lower
Río Grande, in which both Spanish and Indian residents maintained
a degree of autonomy and self-determination: "[. . .] a mestizo cul-
ture, or blending of different cultural groups, began to evolve and
thrive [. . .] away from the Mexican and U.S. governments" (10).
This agrarian lifestyle with its ranch-based economy would be threat-
ened and eventually vanquished by the U.S. westward expansión and
the consequent introduction of a capitalistic financial system. These
historical forces helped form the matrix from which were drawn the
Mexico-Texan folk ballads so dear to Américo Paredes.

As a young man, Paredes grew up imbued with the rhythms of
music and poetry. Américo learned to play the guitar at an early age,
despite the protests of his father, a lover of Spanish poetry who did
not hide his disdain for popular music. Américo's differences with his
father did not impede him from developing a deep love for the written
word, in the languages of Cervantes and Shakespeare, both of which
he commanded with native fluency. This grounding in both English
and Spanish canonical literature would eventually allow Paredes to
appreciate the particularities and inflections of the Spanish spoken
along the Río Grande. Yet as a Mexico-Tejano, Paredes lived what
Morín has defined as an "in-between existence:" a sense of being
neither fully Mexican ñor fully American, yet being both at the same
time. This "in-betweenness" would eventually give birth to his work
at UT Austin, defining theory of folklore as performance, an expres-
sive space inhabited by the artist between the work performed and
the public receiving it.

At the core of The Legacy of Américo Paredes is Paredes' semi-
nal work, With his Fistol in his Hand: A Border Bailad and its Hero
(1958). By now an almost universally required reading for students of
Chicano literature, the book is a scholarly study of a famous Spanish-
language bailad, "El corrido de Gregorio Cortez." As Morín points
out, it is impossible to pigeon-hole With his Fistol in his Hand: part
folklore, part sociolinguistics, part anthropology, it helped to redefine
the boundaries between these disciplines and to challenge the pre-
vailing view of Mexican American culture as a series of bastardized
customs with no authentic voice. In subsequent years, With his Fistol
in his Hand achieved cult status among young Chicano activists in
the 1960s seeking a narrative to support their nascent ideology of

Reviews 229

resistance. The author provides an overview of the book for those
unfamiliar with it and a summary of its criticai reception to the pres-
ent day, as well as a critique of the 1984 motion picture The Bailad
of Gregorio Cortez, which featured a young Edward James Olmos
as Cortez. According to Morín, among the flaws of the film was its
coarse portrayal of Cortez, one which bothered Américo Paredes and
"[. . .] robbed him of his dignity and courage" (95).

In the fourth and final chapter, "Toward New Perspectives in
Folklore and Cultural Anthropology," Morín stakes his strongest
claim: namely that Paredes "[. . .] articulated an idea of performance
that anticipated the postmodern movement in cultural anthropol-
ogy— a movement that inspires the protection of primitive and
local cultures from First World attempts to reorganize them" (97).
Through his work on the folklore of the Mexico/Texas border región
the author of With his Fistol in his Hand uitimately subverted the
paradigm of the fieldworker who observes the cultural production of
another people from the "outside," and empowered the "observed"
to have a voice through the performance of their songs, legends, and
jests on their own terms. This he did through the publication of his
1977 essay, "On Ethnographic Work among Minority Groups: A
Folklorist's Perspective," arguing that the perceived expectations of
the ethnographer often conditioned the responses of the individuais
relied on as informants. In order to decipher the complex set of visual
and aural markers indicating irony, flattery, or sarcasm, a researcher
needed a deep knowledge of the culture under investigation, one that
was almost impossible to attain for an outsider. Paredes's concept of
"folklore as performance" aided him in offering a counterpoint to tra-
ditional anthropological methods, a concept which, Morín maintains,
anticipated the postmodern revolution in the social sciences yet never
receiving the credit it deserved.

While the focus of Paredes's scholarship was arguably the demoli-
tion of U.S. stereotypes about Mexican Americans, he also engaged
in sparring matches with Mexican intellectuals, most notably the
poet Octavio Paz. Incensed by the disparaging depictions of Mexican
Americans in Paz's well-known work, El laberinto de la soledad
(1950, rev. 1959), Paredes accused the Nobel lauréate of reducing
the image of young Mexican-Americans to a stereotype that was no
less bigoted than those employed by Anglo-Americans. Moreover,
Paredes took issue with Paz's overly oedipal evaluation of Mexican

230 Rei'iews

machismo, arguing that in some aspects machismo reflected nothing
more than the ideais of courage commemorated in the folk songs
of all nations; and that there was no evidence to suppose that in its
most exaggerated "Mexican" forms machismo "[. . .] even existed in
México before the Revolution" (119), an insight which effectively
vitiated Paz's analysis.

Morín has done a great service by rendering the work of Américo
Paredes available to a broad audience, and it is natural that a work
about such a complex figure should bear some shortcomings, one
of which is the use of less-than precise terminology at times. When
dealing with the ethnic groups that popúlate the Texas-Mexico border-
lands, the subjects of Paredes' studies are designated as "Mexicans,"
"border Mexicans," "Mexico-Tejanos," "Mexican Americans," in
contrast to the dominant culture north of the Río Grande, which is
alternately referred to as "American," "North American," "Anglo-
American," "Anglo-Texan," or simply "Anglo." Many of these ñames
are used interchangeably throughout the text, though in becoming
familiar with Paredes' work, the reader will note that they are not
always equivalents. Regarding the use the word "Mexican" to des-
ígnate the peoples of Mexican extraction living in Texas, Américo
Paredes himself argued that what developed along the Río Grande was
not merely a subset of Mexican culture, but rather a unique hybrid.
Moreover, is "Anglo" the best term to describe both the culture of the
English-speaking settlers that entered the Texas-Mexico borderlands
during the 19th century as well as the dominant U.S. Texan culture
one hundred years henee? Perhaps the answer is "yes," but a scholarly
book of this caliber could have benefited from a definition of terms
at its outset.

The above criticism notwithstanding, to write a treatise on a
scholar of the stature of Américo Paredes is a daunting task, which
Morín has accomplished with great skill. Given the amount of mate-
rial that Paredes published, this will not be the last word on the legacy
of Don Américo, ñor should it be. Instead, readers should be thankful
that there is now available an erudite, accessible, and engaging intro-
duction to the father of Border Studies.

Damián Bacich
San José State University

In Memoriam

Professor Guillermo E. Hernández (1940-2006)
Professor Carroll B. Johnson (1938-2007)

XXX

Man's mortal life, a year so short,
Sweeps ali in its wake, repulsing the bold
Sword with its steel, the marble slab so cold
Which against time pits its strength to no purport.

The foot, before it knows how to sport,
Moves on the path to death, where my life so old
And dark I send, a river muddy and thick like mold,
Which the waves imbibe in their onslaught.

Each brief moment is a lengthy pace
Which on this march despite myself I take.
For I press on when at rest or when asleep.

A sigh so brief, so final, and so base

Is death whose legacy I cannot forsake;

But if it is not Nemesis but law, why do I weep? (32)

XXXI

Oh how between my hands you slide!
Oh how, my life, you squirm and shp!
What stealthy steps on cold death's trip
While trampling pomp, vanity, and pride!

Its ladders hand from my besieged side,
The coward that I am confirms its grip;
Each day ceded by Time's ghostly ship
Is a new life borne on its sail so wide.

Oh fragile state of man's earthly paradise
That I cannot want to see another day
Without fear of seeing my demise.

Each moment of this human fray

Is a new reason to emphasize

How weak it is, how useless, and how gray. (33)

Translations by C. Brian Morris

Quevedo, Francisco de. Obras completas I. Poesia original.

Ed. José Manuel Blecua. Barcelona: Planeta, 1963.

MESTER, VOL. XXXVI (2007) 233

Contributors

Damián Bacich is an Assistant Professor of Spanish in the Department
of Foreign Languages at San José State University, California. His field
of research is Early Modern Spanish and Colonial Spanish American
literatures, including the literature of the Spanish borderlands.

Gabriel Ignacio Barreneche is an Assistant Professor at RoUins
CoUege, Florida where he teaches contemporary Latin American
Literature. His research interests include Cuban exile literature, post-
modern Latin American fiction as well as innovations in language
pedagogy. He received his Ph.D. in Hispanic Languages and Litera-
tures from UCLA in 2003.

Eduardo Barros Grela is an Assistant Professor of Spanish at
California State University, Northridge, where he teaches courses on
contemporary Spanish literature. His publications include essays on
postfeminism and Latino studies, and his current research focuses on
ecocriticism, urban theory, and posthumanism.

Andrea Colvin is a doctoral candidate in the Deparment of Spanish
and Portuguese at the Unviersity of California, Irvine. She received her
B.A. in Spanish Education from the University of Delaware and her
M.A. in Spanish from the University of CaHfornia, Irvine. Her research
interests include Contemporary Latin American Narrative, specifically
the post-dictatorial novel (1980-present), the representation of politi-
cai violence, survival and memory, the relationship between fantasy
and trauma, and the use of the child's perspective.

Joanna Dávila nació en Humacao, Puerto Rico. En el 1992, culminó
sus estudios de subgrado en la Universidad de Puerto Rico, Recinto
de Río Piedras. En 1998, se trasladó a San José, California donde en
2004 completó sus estudios de Maestría con concentración en español.
El mismo año comenzó sus estudios de Doctorado en la Universidad
de California, Los Ángeles. Actualmente, está en su cuarto año de
estudios preparando su tesis cuyo tema consiste en la construcción y
representaciones del lesbianismo en el Caribe a través de las literaturas
de la República Dominicana y Puerto Rico.

MESTER, VOL. XXXVI (2007) 235

236 Contributors

Elena Deanda Camacho es mexicana y estudiante del doctorado en
español en Vanderbilt University, en Nashville, Tennessee. Tiene la
licenciatura en literatura española por la Universidad Veracruzana
y la maestría en artes por parte de Vanderbilt University. Además
ha tomado cursos de filosofía, historia de las religiones y literatura
medieval en la Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, el Insti-
tuto Mircea Eliade y la Université Toulouse Le Mirail, Francia. Sus
intereses de investigación se centran en el post-estructuralismo, la
teoría de la performance, la teoría crítica, los estudios post-coloniales
y de género. Actualmente es becaria del Center for Studies of Religión
and Culture 2007-2008 y del Gobierno de Veracruz. Elena estudia las
políticas del folklore colonial y las poéticas del discurso inquisitorial
en el siglo de las luces en España y la Nueva España.

JosHUA Alma Enslen is a Ph.D. candidate in the Department of
Romance Languages at the University of Georgia. He received his
M.A. in Romance Languages from the University of Georgia in 2004
and his B.M. in Jazz Studies and Music Media from the University of
Alabama in 2002. Mr. Enslen is currently writing his dissertation on
the historical development and the político-cultural ramifications of
the relationship between literature and diplomacy in Brazil.

Alexandra Falek is a Ph.D. candidate in the Department of Spanish
and Portuguese Languages and Literatures at New York University.
She is presently writing her dissertation about current cultural produc-
tion related to memory in post-authoritarian society, with a focus on
recent fictional narratives from Uruguay. She holds a B.A. from the
University of California, Berkeley. Research interests include 20th and
21st century literatures and cultures of the Américas, narrative fiction,
cultural memory, writers in exile, visual studies (film and photogra-
phy), translation, and migration studies.

Nicola Gavioli is a doctoral student in the Department of Spanish and
Portuguese at the University of Califonia, Santa Barbara. His research
interests include: Luso-Brazihan literature, Mexican and Cuban con-
temporary novel, Comparative literature, and Trauma Studies.

Dilton Cândido Santos Maynard é professor assistente da Universi-
dade Estadual de Alagoas, onde leciona as disciplinas Introdução aos
Estudos Históricos, Teoria da História e História do Nordeste. Possui

Contributors 237

graduação em História pela Universidade Federal de Sergipe (1999) e
mestrado em Sociologia pela Universidade Federal de Sergipe (2002).
Atualmente realiza o seu Doutorado em História pela Universidade
Federal de Pernambuco. Tem pesquisado sobre a história do Brasil no
século XX, abordando diferentes produções culturais (radiodifusão,
biografias, modernismo, cinema). A sua tese de doutorado versará
sobre os usos sociais das memórias de Delmiro Gouveia.

C. Brian Morris was educated in Wales and England; he graduated
from the University of Manchester with First-Class Honors in Spanish
and French in 1955 and, in 1957, with an M.A.; the University of Hull
awarded him a D.Litt. in 1975. In 1980 he joined the Department of
Spanish and Portuguese at UCLA as Full Professor, and was given the
title of Distinguished Professor in 2004. He retired in March 2007.
He has written extensively on twentieth-century Spanish literature; the
writers and fields that have most consistently engaged him are Rafael
Alberti, Federico García Lorca, Surrealism, and the cinema.

Alessandra Santos received a B.A. in Comparative Literature from
UC Berkeley, and a Ph.D. in Hispanic Languages and Literatures from
UCLA. Her research examines appropriations and the artistic implica-
tions of production and consumption. She is currently a Postdoctoral
Fellow at the University of British Columbia, Vancouver.

Andrés Pérez Simón trabaja actualmente en una tesis doctoral sobre
teatro experimental europeo en el Centro de Literatura Comparada de
la Universidad de Toronto, donde completó su M.A, en 2006. También
colabora en funciones docentes e investigadoras con el departamento
de Español de la misma universidad. Antes de llegar a Canadá realizó
estudios en España (Licenciado en Periodismo, Licenciado en Teoría
de la Literatura y Literatura Comparada de la Universidad Com-
plutense de Madrid, Doctor en Literatura Inglesa de la Universidad
de Jaén). Sus áreas de interés son la teoría literaria, el teatro europeo
de vanguardia y la novela moderna española y europea.

FiONA ScHOUTEN is a Ph.D. student in the Department of Romance
Languages and Cultures (Faculty of Arts) at Radboud University
Nijmegen, The Netherlands. Her research project "Desmemorización
and literary memory" investigates memory narratives of the Francoist
dictatorship and the Spanish Civil War in fourteen Spanish novéis

238 Contributors

written after 1990, and touches on such subjects as nostalgia, haunt-
ing, and autobiography. Her research interests include literature as a
memory médium, and the role of traumatic pasts in global or local
cultural identity processes.

Sylvia Sherno has been a lecturer in the Department of Spanish and
Portuguese at UCLA for 24 years. She has published arricies on the
poetry of Blas de Otero, José Ángel Valente, Blanca Andreu, and Ana
Rossetti. She is the author of Weaving the World: The Poetry of Glo-
ria Fuertes and co-editor, with Cecile West-Settle, of The Word and
the World. Essays in Honor of Andrew P. Debicki.

Juan Velasco received his first Ph.D. in 1992 from the Universidad
Complutense de Madrid, Spain. His área of specialization was Con-
temporary Latin American Literature. In 1995, he received his second
Ph.D. from UCLA. His área of specialization was Contemporary
Chicano/a Literature. He taught at the University of Kansas, and since
2000 he has taught at Santa Clara University. His first novel. Enamo-
rado, was published in Spain in 2000. He wrote the foreword for the
anthology Under the Fifth Sun: Latino Literature from California
(2002) and published the book Las fronteras móviles: tradición y
modernidad en la Literatura Chicana contemporánea (2003).

MESTER

XXXVII

Call for Papers

WRITING AND REWRITING:
THE DYNAMICS OF COMPETING VOICES

The relation between or among the pluralistic discourses that represent the complex as well as broad Spanish,
Spanish American, Portuguese, and Brazilian social spectrum, has often been presented as polar, binary,
top-down (center vs. periphery and dominant vs. marginal). However, this scheme has been increasingly
challenged and revisad as critics, without necessarily discarding die power relation, have begun to appreciate
negotiations as a crucial component in the dynamics of competing voices. But are negotiations always
viable? If not, why not? If so, to what extent? What are the negotiations that take place? Or, are there
altemative models with which to discuss the dynamics of competing voices? What are they?

In this Special Issue, Mester, the gradúate student academic journal of the Department of Spanish and
Portuguese, invites scholars in the fields of Spanish, Spanish American, Luso-Brazilian, and Latino/a literatures
and linguistics to submit articles exploring and reflecting on this topic, preferably but not exclusively, in
relation to the questions posited above.

Possible áreas of interest include, but are by no means limited to, the following: Gender and Sexuahty,
Ethnicity, Religión, (Visual) Art, Geopolitics, Social History, and Economics.

Articles may be written in Spanish, Portuguese, or English. Publication decisions are based solely on the
quality of manuscripts, which undergo triple-blind review.

To be considered for publication, manuscripts should foUow closely these guidelines:

♦í* Have no fewer than 15 (3750 words) and no more than 25 double-spaced pagas (8000 words), including

endnotes and Works Cited (the bibliography should start on a new page).
♦♦♦ Use Times New Roman font, size 12 point and number aU pages, including the bibliography.
•♦♦ FoUow the conventions of the most current edition of the MLA Style Manual.
♦♦♦ Please do not write your name on the manuscripts but include it in your cover letter along with the title of

your article, your institutional affiliation, e-mail, work and/or home address.
♦♦♦ Reviews for works published within the past yaar are accepted for the following categories: academic books,

linguistics, film and fiction. Reviews should be between 500 and 1,200 words in length. Publishers and

authors are welcome to submit books for possible selection.
♦♦♦ Please send complete submissions electronically (via e-mail) and use Microsoft Word 95 or higher.
♦♦• Submissions that are being considered by another journal or any other publisher are not accepted.

The deadline is February 22, 2008, but early submissions are encouraged.

Please forward ali raquirad materiais or questions to:

Mester

Attn: Laura Lee, Editor-in-Chief

llee@humnet.ucla.edu

Department of Spanish and Portuguese, UCLA

M^P{Í5|Ísffií(iílS:

CONTENTS

VOLUME XXXVI 2007

INTRODUCTION
ARTICLES

and Nostalgia in Cabrera Infante 's The Lost Cit;

Ediíajido Barros Grua. Idas )■ venidas en la España contemporánea: los casüs
de Volver, de Pedro Airnodóvar y Calzados Lola de Suso de loro

Andrea Colmn. Memory aod Fantasy: The imaginar-^ e i^-- ,.,.r,-,., ft.,-
ot a Lost Past in Las cartas que no llegaron

lli ' \A Dkaxda Camacho. "El chuchumbé te he de soplar:" sobre obscer,'.
censura y memoria oral en el pnmer "'son de la tierra" noxobispano

JosHUA Alma Enslen. The Hour and Turn of João Guimarães R— <■- -^'.^ '■:
Discou.i-se and Death in the Academia Brasileira de Letras

.\]A\ I.K. Forms oí Memory in Recent Fictional Narratives from

Uruguay; Summonmg the Dictatorship in "Mnemonic íntervenrions"'

Nk ola Gavioli. Sebald's Still Life De^'ices against Interpretations: A- '---' -- ■
of Austerlitz through Cortázar's and /Vntonioni's Cameras

DinoN Cándido Santos Mayvard. O ''mcxlernizador dos sertões:"
intelectuais brasileiros e as memorias de Delmiro GouAeía

C. Brlxn Morris. Rafael Aiberti y el peso del ayer

Andrfs Pérez Slvión. El recuerdo fracturado de !a Guerra Civilespañola:
trauma individual y colectivo en La prima Angélica

f lONA Sa^ouTiúN. Labyrintb vvithout Walls: The Uncanny and the Gothic Modc
as Forms of Hauntine; m Im casa del padre bv justo Navarro

Juan Ve

'. ,"\.r)7/i>()s- T oít

r.ulin'ir Sl.Mirh. ,,nd rh.- T

REVÍEWS

Blnítfz, Ruaj'N. Bécquer y la tradición de la lírica popular. (Syiviü

JiMtNKZ Poi.AKco, jAfQLELiNJí. Ed. Divagaciones bajo la Iuiu/Musi7¡i'
iinder the Moon. Voces e iniágena de lesbianas dominicanas/
Vi:;^^^ atid Irruiges of Dominican Lesbians. (Joanna Dávilaj

KuiN', Nao^. The Shock Doctrim;. The Rise of Disaster CMpitalism. (Alessincra S.in

Lói'tz MoRíN, jost R. The l^gacy of América Farcdts. (i;)amian Bacichi

ÍN MEMORIAM
CONTRTP>TTTOT{<Í